A Man Worth Following
by H.J. Bender
Summary: Winters find himself fighting two wars as he struggles to lead Easy Company and save his and Nixon's friendship from being torn apart by alcoholism.
1. Death's Forest

_**Disclaimer:** This is a work of fiction concerning the actors in the series and in no way reflects the lives of the real persons involved in WWII. Naturally, certain historical data have been altered to better suit this story. This is purely for entertainment and no disrespect is intended. All rights reserved._

_January 2, 1945_

Richard Winters sat under the sagging canvas tent, listening to the chuck of shovels against the icy earth. Men scraping and scratching for whatever they could break loose. Tired men. Shivering men, mining for warmth, carving out their miserable shelters.

It was shit work; the ground was frozen almost ten inches down, limited energy wasted on basic survival instead of combat. But the men clung to their shovels with white knuckles and bloodless fingers, scattering meager ounces of black soil and wintry slush over their shoulders. They dug because they had to, because The End was staring down at them as they dropped their heavy boots onto the spades and churned up another handful. Foxholes were the only thing that stood between a soldier and his death, and all the men of Easy Company knew that.

Death wasn't just waiting beyond the front line, but was falling all around them. Creeping under their clothes. Saturating their lungs like invisible poison. Settling into their bones and their empty bellies. Like a vicious whore with kisses of frost, the Ardennes had welcomed the men with open arms and now lay with them all, making love to them slowly—sweetly, gently, so that they wouldn't feel a thing, wouldn't notice that she was lulling their hearts to sleep in her deadly, snowy embrace.

The captain wrapped his arms tighter around himself, curling his toes in his boots and pressing his bare fingers into the pathetic warmth under his arms. The voices of the men out on the line were muffled, the snow deadening all sound, turning the forest into an eerie, dreamlike world in which no echoes fell. In this world there was no sky, no stars, no universe. Everything ended above the treetops, and the rest was nothing but blank, black space.

It was an easy fantasy to get lost in. No America, no Germany, no war. Just this scene, this play. It made it a lot easier to focus on one's deplorable predicament: holding the line, waiting for the world to shatter with a burst of artillery, under-equipped, cold, hungry, hoping that the medics would have enough supplies to keep a wounded man alive.

Sergeant Lipton was aware how dangerous this morbid dwelling on the situation was to morale, and did his best to remind the troops of the world outside of Ardennes. Winters tried to smile when he stopped by the tent to report, but it was difficult to manage, especially after Lip told him they were one less man and that Dike was still MIA. The outlook of the situation was growing dimmer with each passing moment.

Winters stared out into the approaching night, between the dark trunks of untidy trees with their branches caked in snow. It was always dark here, even during the day. Almost as if the sun were afraid to shine on this cursed forest. The heavy fog had thinned a little, revealing a bleak, unfriendly landscape that was better off shrouded. Surely it was different in spring, Winters imagined, shuddering. Warm and grassy and sun-dappled. Green leaves and sweet pine. Gentle breezes and living creatures.

The fantasy faded before his eyes as a dry, rasping cough barked faintly in the distance.

For now, at least, the Ardennes was the forest where Death dwelled.

The crunch of boots through the snow alerted Winters of a newcomer. He turned his head slightly, more as a gesture of awareness than an actual effort to see.

"How're ya holdin' up?" Lewis Nixon rubbed his hands together and sat down on a crate beside his friend.

"I'm fine," replied Winters, glancing over Nixon's face briefly before returning his gaze to the trees.

"Really? You look a little cold." It was a comment meant to be taken lightly, but the understatement was hardly humorous. Winters was shaking all over, and it would have looked ridiculously theatrical if it weren't genuine.

"I'm fine," he repeated flatly.

Nixon didn't respond immediately. He let his eyes wander over Winters' huddled form, examining his pallor, his posture, his shudder, gathering the intelligence that conversation would never deign to afford him. Winters' bare knuckles peeked out from beneath his sleeve, ashy white and cracking from the cold.

"How many shifts are you planning on doing, Dick?"

"As many as I have to."

"Is that so. What happened to your gloves?"

"Gave 'em to Eugene. He needed them more than me."

That was probably the truth. A medic wouldn't be much of a medic if he couldn't use his hands. Nixon pried again. "It's getting dark. Where's your blanket? Where's the Coleman?"

"I lent my last one to Malarkey. Aid station's got the stove. And before you lecture me about charity, Captain, remember who's risking their lives out on that line. This tent's more than what I need."

"Yeah," Nixon nodded, grinning mirthlessly. "This is a swell little HQ you've got here. Nice and drafty, open on all four sides, just letting in that crisp winter breeze . . . refreshing."

Winters felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.

Nixon bumped his shoulder against his friend's. "Don't be a martyr, Dick. The guys'll still respect you if you're not an icicle in the morning, I promise. Listen—" he pointed in some vague direction behind him, "—instead of sitting out here in the open and keeping the trees company, I've got a nice foxhole just over there, good and deep with a blanket and everything, so why don't you snap your frozen ass offa that crate and come join me?"

Winters smiled thinly. "I appreciate the offer, Lew, but I belong here, where my men can find me."

His tenacity vexed Nixon. Nixon didn't like being vexed. It made him defensive and sarcastic. Much the same way he reacted to rejection, which was another thing he hated. _That_ hurt him most of all. "So you're just gonna sit here all night, with no blanket or stove and no goddamn gloves, and wait for first light or first fight, is that it?"

"Nobody's making you stay, Captain." Winters' voice was sharp as he met Nixon's eyes. "If you don't like it, you're free to leave." His tone softened a little when he saw his friend's hands tighten into fists. "Go on. Get some sleep. I'll be fine."

Nixon remained motionless for a few seconds, his dark eyes boring holes through Winters' pale blue ones. Then he rose and disappeared into the snowy twilight, leaving no words to conclude his futile argument. Winters could hear his footsteps fade away until the silence had taken over once more. He stretched his stiff fingers and rubbed them uselessly, letting his thoughts drift back to the present.

Nix was only trying to look out for him. Thoughtful of him, especially considering how far removed it was from his usual demeanor. Introverted. Aloof. Unaffected. Not that he was incapable of caring for people—he had a family, after all—but the bottle had a talent for coming between friends and numbing associations. Turning good men into self-pitying, self-destructive, self-centered bastards. That he still stuck with Winters after all this was a testament to the largeness of his heart. A heart that, regrettably, no one else could see behind the tinted glass of Vat 69.

Winters exhaled a shivering breath and watched the thin cloud fade before his eyes. He felt low. And cold. And hungry. And tired. But it wouldn't be forever, and that was all that mattered. He could endure. He would persevere.

He didn't really care for the alternative.

* * *

He didn't know exactly when it was that he dozed off, but when he opened his eyes again it was darker. The snowy landscape gave the evening a ghostly quality, reflecting what little light actually penetrated the cloudy sky and dense branches. Had he heard something? Or had he been dreaming?

Winters straightened his aching back, unfolded his aching arms, stretched his aching legs. The cold that he had forgotten during sleep came back with a vengeance, chewing into his flesh and leaving his body feeling shrunken and beaten.

The sound came again, and Winters realized it had not been a dream.

He stood as quickly as his stiff muscles would allow and turned to see a dark figure shuffling out of the trees toward his tent. He recognized Nixon's stride, but was too perplexed by his reappearance to greet him. He was definitely pissed, though. Nobody walked that heavily, even in military-issue boots.

Nixon ducked his head as he stepped under the sad little shelter and stood before Winters, all defiance and wounded ego. He gave a crisp, formal nod. "Captain."

Winters returned it, eyes falling to Nixon's arms. Arms that suddenly dropped a frost-covered wool blanket and a few panels of shattered wood. Probably from an ammo crate that had been blasted in an earlier attack.

Winters stared.

Nixon kneeled down and began to arrange the pieces of wood on the hard, icy dirt. He worked silently, lips drawn tightly and looking very serious, until a square little pallet was formed. He grabbed the blanket and gave it a few flaps to rid the frost clinging to the fibers, then threw it around his shoulders. He left a suspiciously large amount of it on his right.

He finally looked up at Winters, his expression relaxing a little. "Well, c'mon."

"Wh . . ." The captain's eyebrows quirked, his mouth wanting to smile but unsure if it was appropriate. "Nix . . ."

"If I have to sleep out in the open, I'm not doing it on the wet ground. Or alone." He nodded his head to the right. "C'mon. It's big enough, and you need it more than me."

Winters hesitated, slowly realizing what Nixon had done. For somebody other than himself.

"Will you quit looking at me like that and just get over here?"

In no position (and having no reason) to decline, Winters seated himself on the broken pieces of wood and accepted the heavy blanket around his body. Nixon slid closer, muttering, "Took you long enough. Here, gimme your hands."

Winters held them out, white and naked. Rimed with dirt and grease. Long, sturdy fingers more suited for farming than warfare. They trembled from the cold as Nixon peeled off his thin, ragged gloves and clasped them in his own.

"Jesus. You're like ice."

His weren't much warmer, but they felt better than nothing. He massaged them roughly, rubbing the feeling back into them. Winters watched, quiet.

Nixon cupped his hands over his friend's and leaned down, blowing warm air onto them. He alternated this pattern for a few minutes, breathing and rubbing until finally Winters' hands were raw and pink and moving again. They hurt like hell now that he could feel them, but pain was a good sign. At least in this case.

Winters kept his head bowed and smiled. _Bashful_, at a time like this. "Thanks. But you could've just shot them, you know."

Nixon laughed, a real laugh with real spirit. It was the first time Winters had heard him do that since entering Bastogne. Or Normandy, for that matter.

"I'm serious. I bet a bullet would've felt better."

Nixon took hold of Winters' hands again and rubbed, shaking his head. "If you keep this up I'm gonna tell Luz you're out to commandeer his position as Company Wise Guy."

"You can tell him not to worry. I'm not that wise."

The dark haired man grinned. "Typical Dick Winters response."

"Yeah."

They met eyes for a moment and stared, as if appraising each other's condition. Nixon, scruffy and unshaven, his hair stringy and unwashed under his battle-scarred helmet, face smudged with grease and dirt; Winters, cheeks thin and pallid, eyelids purple and lips colorless, a white face swallowed up by the dark petals of his coat collar—like some kind of war flower. Nixon smelled of cigarettes and wet wool; Winters of gun grease and leather. Beneath these scents the omnipresent odor of oily scalps and sweaty skin and armpits and dirty socks lingered, unacceptable for either of them in any other situation, yet unnoticed or forgiven now.

Winters realized that Nixon had stopped rubbing his hands long ago. A second later Nixon came to the same conclusion, and they drew their hands away. Nixon folded his under his arms and pretended that the underside of the canvas roof was interesting. Winters pulled his half of the blanket around himself and pondered the usefulness of it.

"Lew?"

"Hm?" Nixon altered his attention.

"You remember Fort Benning?"

"The old Frying Pan." Nixon smirked. "Hard to forget it. I think I recall meeting a skinny redhead there—"

"Skinny?" Winters echoed.

"—yeah. A real beanpole, this guy, and no fun at all, who ended up twisting my arm and forcing me to join the paratroopers-"

"You _followed_ me to Toccoa."

"Only because I thought you were smart; if I'da known I'd be stuck in this shit, I would have signed up for the Rangers."

"Seriously?"

"I bet I'd be a general by now if it weren't for you." He winked. In the dim shadows he looked suddenly younger than his twenty six years. He was once more that boyish, charming smart aleck from Jersey. The one who smuggled booze in other people's footlockers and never took anything seriously. Not even death. "But no, I go skippin' after Dicky Winters and jump outta planes and get shot in the head and freeze my ass off. That's what I get for chasin' redheads. You're all nothing but trouble."

Winters parried, "You didn't have to follow me."

"I know. But I figured at least one of us should know where he's going." He gazed up at the imaginary sky above the tent. "You needed someone to watch your back, anyway. Just think where you'd be without me: sitting here, giving your last name a literal meaning."

"It'd be a whole lot quieter, that's for sure."

"Aw, shut up." He reached out and put his arm around Winters' shoulders, pulling him closer. Their helmets clunked together. They leaned against one another and shivered, wooly and weary, gazing out into the Ardennes night.

We've come so far since Fort Benning, Winters had wanted to say before Nixon's tangent had stolen the conversation. We've seen and lived things that nobody else will ever understand. We've bled and frozen and starved together. And this war, our story, is still unfinished. Who knows where tomorrow will find us? If I die next week or live to a hundred, there will be no bond like the bond between us. It can't be reproduced ever again . . . And I can't imagine ever caring about another human being as deeply as I do you.

"You're a good man, Lew," murmured Winters.

"I know," Nixon smirked.

"Thanks for following me."

"Thanks for being a man worth following. Not many of your kind left."

"I bet you'd find some if you looked."

"No, thanks. You're already a handful."

For a while they sat on the wooden pallet, huddled together like mice. They listened to the crack of tree branches and the faint sounds of the men. Coughing. Talking. Trudging back and forth to their foxholes. Then the long hours of cold and sleeplessness got the best of them, and they lay down side by side, helmets removed and set aside. Nixon wrapped his body around Winters', one arm fitted snugly about his waist and holding him close. There was nothing sentimental in this—they were just trying to survive. They drew the blanket over their heads and tried to get comfortable on the broken pieces of wood. It wasn't going to be a restful night, but at least they had each other.

"Man," Nixon shuddered, "wonder what the wife would say if she could see me now."

Winters wondered, too. "She probably wouldn't care."

"Yeah. Probably." Pause. "It's already on the rocks. Our marriage, I mean. I'm not even sure she'll be there when I get back. If I get back."

"Is that why you joined the military?" asked Winters, gazing blindly in the darkness under the blanket. "To get away?"

He heard Nixon sigh heavily. He felt it, right on his neck. "Maybe. I guess. I dunno. Maybe . . . maybe I was hoping for something. Like an epiphany, or someone, God or whoever, would show me what to do. Or maybe I'm just fucking up again, I dunno."

Winters blinked slowly. "I think you're right where you're supposed to be."

"What, huddled up with you?"

"I mean in life."

"Oh. You're one of those Fate and Destiny types, aren't you?" The disdain in Nixon's voice was apparent.

"I don't know, Lew. Does it really matter?"

He paused. "I guess not. You're a pretty swell guy either way."

Winters smiled. A compliment from Lewis Nixon was a rare thing. Even rarer still were the compliments he actually meant. "Thanks."

Nixon never replied. At least verbally. He gave Winters a squeeze and fell asleep breathing against his ear. Winters folded his arm beneath his head and listened to the night. It was so cold out there. So dark. But dawn would come, and spring would follow eventually.

And he would never be cold again.


	2. A Helluva Way

_March 19, 1945  
Stürzelberg, Germany_

"Major Winters, sir."

Winters looked up from a lasagna of maps and intelligence reports. A young trooper with a wide forehead and a long, thin nose (Hutchins? Hopkins?) stood in the doorway. He saluted anxiously.

"Yes, Private?"

"Colonel Sink is on the phone for you, sir."

Winters rose from his chair.

* * *

"How the hell are you doing, Major? It's good to hear the sound of your voice."

"Doing well, sir," Winters replied, leaning against the counter and speaking into the mouthpiece of an old pedestal telephone. The local _gasthaus_, now converted to a temporary C2, was crowded with personnel this morning. He could barely hear Sink over the shuffling, banging and banter. "How are things at Regiment?"

"Slow as shit. But we're pushin' through. They finally nailed down a date on Varsity and the 'troopers are on pins and needles 'til then. I'll tell you honestly, Dick, this is the biggest operation I've ever seen assembled. Even if it gets twice as fouled as Overlord, it'll still be a hell of a show. The Krauts won't be forgettin' us anytime soon."

Winters smiled. "That's good to hear, sir."

"Yeah. Only problem is—"

The smile vanished.

"—most of the 17th are still rookies, and this'll be their first combat jump. General Taylor wants a veteran to go with them, so I volunteered Captain Nixon."

Winters blinked, surprised. "Nixon, sir?"

"That's right. They've already got a good CO, so he'll just be along for the ride. Hopefully imparting some of his wisdom while he's at it. Anyway." The colonel's voice lowered, becoming more serious. "I didn't call to shoot the shit with you, Major. The truth is I'm having a bit of a problem . . ."

And for some reason, Winters already knew what it was.

_One week later_

"Captain Nixon's back, sir," said Ron Speirs as he passed Winters on the stairs.

Winters stopped and turned. _This soon?_ he thought. "Really? When did he get in?"

"Now." Speirs paused and sent a humorless smile down at his superior. "His jeep just missed me."

Winters nodded his thanks and trotted quickly down the stairs. Speirs watched him go, his lips still set in a thin, eccentric smile.

* * *

"Nix?" he called, entering the foyer of the billet he shared with several other officers. "Nix?"

"In here," came a disembodied voice from down the hall.

Winters took half a second to realign his mood before navigating the hall and crossing the threshold of Nixon's quarters.

The captain, still dressed in his dirty fatigues, was bent over the washbasin, drying his face. A radio sat on a bureau beside the door and poured out a warm song, filling the small room.

Winters smiled, feeling genuinely glad to see his friend again. The sight of him alive and unharmed was better than any sunrise. "You dog," he joked, leaning against the door frame. "Making combat jumps with the 17th while I'm in supply briefings all morning."

"Yeah. Lucky me." Nixon's tone was flat, his voice rough. Nothing remotely happy about it. He didn't even give Winters a passing glance as he sat down on the bed and unlaced his boots.

Winters felt his put-on cheer start to dissolve; he tried to maintain his smile. "Well, congratulations. You're probably the only man in the 101st with three combat stars over his jump wings."

"Not bad for someone who's never fired his weapon in combat, huh?"

"Really?" Winters asked, incredulous. "Really, you've never—"

"Nope."

"Not even with all the action we've seen?"

"Not a round." Nixon rose from the bed and plodded stiffly over to the table. Winters' grin leveled out as he watched his friend uncork a nearly-empty bottle of Vat 69. He stared at the tremble in Nixon's hand as he poured the whiskey into a glass and downed it, then went for another.

Winters leaned against the bureau and stealthily reached over, turned off the radio. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and solemn. "How'd it go this morning? The jump?"

Nixon finally looked at him, glass in hand. "It was great. Fantastic." He strode over to the window, moving absently. A madman pacing the confines of his cell, erratic and disconnected. "We took a direct hit over the drop zone. I got out. Two others got out." He took a gulp from his glass.

Winters nodded slightly. He seemed to know the answer but he had to ask; Nix needed these bricks off his shoulders before they crushed him. "And the rest of the boys?"

"Oh, they blew up over Germany somewhere," he said matter-of-factly. "Boom." His dark eyes gleamed with desperation, as if just barely hanging on to whatever was keeping him from shattering. His complexion was a little too pasty, too sweaty. The glass was trembling in his hand. He looked as if he might go laughing mad at any moment.

". . . I'm sorry," said Winters as evenly as he could, speaking to the sizzling fuse that was his closest friend.

"About what?"

He fumbled for a moment, trying to find a reason. "Well, it's a tough situation for the—"

"Oh yeah. The boys. Yeah. Terrible." Nixon smiled grimly. "Oh well, wasn't me."

Winters watched him drain the glass. White light streamed through the curtains, casting Nixon's silhouette in an ethereal glow. He looked like something between Bouguereau and _film noir_. A tortured, alcoholic angel. With a parachute instead of wings.

"You know—" he shook the last drops of whiskey from the bottle, "—the real tragedy is they also lost their CO, so guess who gets to write all the letters home?" He stalked out the door, muttering as he passed, "Goddamn nightmare."

Winters held back for a second, then followed Nixon into the parlor. The captain refilled from the half-finished bottle on the table (_He's probably running out by now_, thought Winters) and slumped into a chair dejectedly.

Winters remained standing, audience to his companion's self-destruction. It was getting worse, he knew. The drinking. The moodiness. The unruly disregard for authority. He didn't know why—it couldn't just be the war, could it?—or how bad it was going to get before he hit rock bottom. Things were unraveling for Nixon as quickly as they were coming together for Winters. He wanted to intervene. He couldn't stand here, like he was standing now, and let Nix destroy himself like this. Maybe a bucket of ice cold reality would sober him up a bit.

"I got a call from Colonel Sink last week."

Nixon smirked sourly. "And how is the good Colonel?"

"Concerned." That was a lie. Sink was troubled—Winters was concerned. He nodded toward the bottle. "Still drinking nothing but the Vat 69, huh?"

Nixon raised his glass. "Only the finest for Mrs Nixon's baby boy."

"That a problem up at Regiment?"

Nixon's eyes went wide: a child accused of stealing candy. "What, _this_? Is that what he said? No, I just don't like it up there."

Winters concentrated on the ornate designs in one of the chairs. "Good," he said. "So you'll be happy to hear that Sink is transferring you back down to Battalion S3."

He expected a bang. What he got was an empty click.

"What do you think I should write to these parents, Dick?"

"Hear what I said, Nix?" he asked sharply. "You've been demoted."

"Yeah. Demoted, got ya. 'Cause I don't know to tell them their kids never even made it outta the goddamn plane."

Winters felt as if he were talking through water. But he understood what Lew was feeling. He'd been saddled with the unfortunate task of writing death letters himself. "You tell them what you always tell them: that their sons died as heroes."

Nixon squinted at his friend. "You really still believe that?"

"Yeah," said Winters. "Yeah, I do." He gazed into dark eyes, searching a turbulent midnight sea for a drowning man. "Don't you?"

Nixon gulped dryly, a weak grin creeping onto his lips. And then, unable to bear the heat of those penetrating blue eyes, he turned his head away.

* * *

Bad things, Nixon soon learned, didn't come in threes. They came in fours. Bang-bang-bang-bang, nice and neat, and every gambler knows four of a kind beats three.

He'd watched a plane of young paratroopers explode. He'd been demoted. He'd run out of Vat 69. That completed the trinity of misery. There shouldn't have been another blow after that, but there was. It came in the form of a letter, just when the unit was preparing to move out of Stürzelberg.

Winters caught sight of him in the mass of olive drab and jogged over to see what was causing that look on his face. "Lew?"

Nixon read the sentence again, just to be sure he wasn't imagining it. He wasn't. "Jesus Christ, the _dog_?"

"Lew!" Winters appeared at his side and was about to ask what was up when Nixon said it outright:

"Kathy's divorcing me."

Winters was stunned. Unable to think of any elaborate words of consolation, he simply said what sounded best. "I'm sorry." And he _was_—but he was also worried. It was too soon for Lew to start taking more punches from Life; she was a bitch, and she fought dirty.

"She's taking everything," Nixon explained listlessly, approaching one of the waiting jeeps. "She's taking the house, taking the kid. She's taking the dog. It's not even her dog! It's my dog!" With a sudden explosion of energy, he ripped off his helmet and threw it into the back of the vehicle. "She's taking _my_ dog!"

A few of the men in the vicinity turned their heads and then hurried along uncomfortably. Winters stood beside the jeep, as cool and calm as his friend was passionate and unpredictable. He didn't say anything—he didn't have to—but rather allowed Nixon to take a few breaths and collect himself.

Second Lieutenant Lipton, who had been standing tensely at the driver's side door, looked from one to the other uneasily. "You riding with me, sir?" he deliberately asked Winters.

"Yeah, we're riding." Then in a gentler tone, "C'mon, Lew."

Nixon hesitated, heaved a sigh, and climbed into the back seat.

* * *

Nothing rubs salt in a wound quite like being trapped in a crowd of happy people.

The division's spirits were high, and for good reason. They were on the move, headed somewhere that was bound to promise more action, well-rested, well-fed, and it was a beautiful day in Nazi Germany. What's not to like? They were bursting into song before they'd even left Stürzelberg.

"—_and he surely shook with fright! He checked off his equipment and made sure his pack was tight! He had to sit and listen to those awful engines roar, 'You ain't gonna jump no more'!_"

Nixon slouched in the backseat and brooded. For the first time, Winters found himself internally wincing at the gleefully morbid lyrics. They were probably hitting a little too close to home for some people, he thought. And Operation Varsity still seemed fresh in Nix's mind.

Winters twisted around in the passenger seat. "You okay?" he asked over the chorus and the steady grumble of trucks.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Nixon grunted. After a moment, he bitterly added, "She hates that dog."

Winters smiled sympathetically, but he was wondering how he could be more upset about losing his pet than his wife and child. It was likely just a symptom of the shock. That last little straw to tip the scale. He decided to try something tactical. "Any idea where we're going?" He knew, of course, but that didn't really matter.

Nixon stared out at the scenery without really seeing it. "South. Somewhere." He could have been a lot more specific, but he didn't bother; he knew Winters knew where they were going and that this little diversion was all a part of some big cheer-up effort. He didn't want to be cheered up. He wanted to be miserable.

Seeing that the mission had failed, Winters dropped the façade. "I know you're going through some tough times, Lew, but you're not alone. I'm here for you. All of us are. And if there's anything you need to get off your chest, we'll—"

Nixon shaded his face with his hand. "Jesus Christ, Dick, leave it, would you? You're not my father."

"No, I'm not. I'm your friend, and friends talk to each other. More importantly, they listen." His eyes darted over to Lipton, who was politely pretending not to hear a word. His gaze went back to Nixon. "I know it's hard, Nix, but you've gotta snap out of it. Don't let it consume you like this. You've—"

"I know, I know." Nixon rubbed his forehead tiredly, embarrassed by the lecture. "Life goes on, time heals all wounds, blah blah, _que sera_, I _know_, Dick. Don't patronize me."

Winters' hand tightened on the seat. So many things to say . . . and no right way to say them.

The men blissfully carried on, unburdened and unaware. "_The days he'd lived and loved and laughed kept running through his mind! He thought about the girl back home, the one he'd left behind! He thought about the medics and he wondered what they'd find, and he ain't gonna jump no more!_

"_Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die! Gory, gory, what a helluva way to die_ . . ."

"Helluva way to live," Nixon muttered under his breath.

It wasn't meant to be heard by anyone, but Winters heard it. And Lipton apparently heard it too, because he turned his head just slightly enough to meet Winters' eyes. That brief glance—that fleeting, mournful look—said it all.

"—_and he ain't gonna jump no more!_"


	3. David and Goliath

_March 31, 1945_

It was just starting to drizzle when the convoy rolled into Günzberg, a withered husk of a town that most of the inhabitants had already deserted. Shattered plates still lay on dining tables. Clothes still hung in collapsing closets. Those who had stayed behind peeked out of their broken windows, pale-faced and empty-eyed, before drawing the curtains against the line of trucks rumbling down the ruins of their once-proud streets.

Winters' keen eyes darted across crumbling rooftops and yawning black windows, searching for the telltale silhouettes of rifles or German helmets. "Nix," he said warily, "what's our location?"

Nixon clicked off his penlight and looked up from the map. "Günzberg. About twenty five miles north-northwest of Buchloe."

"Occupied?"

"Not anymore; last month Allied reconnaissance planes flew over a German armored division holding a defensive line here. The next day a couple of P-47s shelled the shit outta the whole place." He narrowed his eyes against the light rain, gazing at the dreary rubble. "No kidding."

"Any risk of running into resistance?"

"Don't think so. Most of the civilians pulled out when the Panzers arrived, and the whole division was deep-sixed. If there's any survivors, they're in piss-poor shape." Nixon folded the map and tucked it inside his jacket, flipping his collar up against the cold rain.

Winters regarded his friend out of the corner of his eye. These last four days on the road hadn't been kind to him; he had stopped shaving and his jaw was covered by a prickly shadow of beard. There were bruised-looking half moons under his eyes. His skin was still unnaturally sallow. His eyes were red-rimmed and glassy, miles away. He looked sickly and wild, like a mental patient at the bitter end of his fraying sanity.

"You look like you could use a good night's rest," Winters said as gently as he could.

"I could use a drink," Nixon mumbled, crossing his arms over his chest and hunkering down. The rain was beginning to thicken, the first fat drops pelting down onto his shoulders and staining little black spots on his OD jacket.

Winters kept quiet and turned around. There had been no change in Nix since they'd left Stürzelberg. Only a short temper, clipped sentences, and evasive silence had been heard from the back seat. He was slow to bounce back this time, probably because the absence of his favorite anesthetic was forcing him to deal with reality. A reality he usually either fled or numbed himself against so that he couldn't feel the blows. Now he was facing it in harsh, sober clarity, and it was pounding him into the dirt.

He'd been dry for nearly a week, involuntarily of course. Winters had seen him go without a "nightcap" for long periods of time, but that was at places like Fort Benning and Toccoa. They didn't take kindly to drunken trainees there, so you had to keep your nose clean whatever the cost. It had been easier then, back on American soil, where death was only a vague shadow on the edge of one's consciousness. It was different here. It wore a man down, the stress and the fear and the responsibility. And when the going got tough, Nix reached for the bottle. That was how he coped, how he made it through. It was his comfort, his crutch, his safe place. But he had to learn that the bottle wouldn't always be there for him—his friends, on the other hand, would.

Maybe, Winters thought hopefully, it was time for him to realize that.

* * *

Though the roofs of some of the remaining houses bore gaping wounds and had rafters exposed like skeletal ribs, Easy Company gladly saddled their gear and took refuge from the pouring rain. The houses were cold, drafty and dank, but far better than a night spent sleeping in the back of a truck while the sky bailed its guts out.

After securing the perimeter and assigning watches, most of the men went scrounging for whatever they could find—blankets, fuel, food, though most of the latter had long ago spoiled.

Speirs, Lipton, Welsh and Winters laid claim to an old kitchen with a working fireplace, and destroyed what once was a beautiful maple table in order to feed it. They built a small blaze, just barely enough to warm themselves, and laid out their bedrolls on the cool stone floor. Five years ago none of them would have been able to sleep under such miserable conditions, but war has a tendency to harden a man.

Soft snores and even breathing filled the kitchen as orange firelight made shadows dance on the wall. Winters sat awake, staring into the embers and chewing a piece of leathery bread. He enjoyed these rare moments where he could sit in relative solitude and think. It was his way of dealing with problems: think about them relentlessly, turn them over and comb through the snarls again and again until everything is smooth. Like eroding a mountain pebble by pebble. Time could do it—so could Winters. If he thought about something long enough, he'd figure out a solution. He'd gotten pretty good at it too, if the gold oak leaves on his collar weren't evidence enough. But it was one thing to assault an enemy's fixed position, and quite another to hold together a breaking friendship.

Winters knew what he had to do, and it had to be done soon. Nix's absence from the familiar group of officers wasn't a good sign. He didn't need to be by himself—he didn't need the abuse. What he needed was this, Winters thought, looking at the sleeping bodies of his comrades: Speirs on his back, hands threaded over his stomach, helmet cocked down over his eyes; Lipton curled up on his side, brow furrowed, his Carentan scar arcing across his cheek; Welsh, mouth hanging open and snoring, using Lip's thigh as a pillow.

Friendship. Brotherhood. Undying loyalty and fierce, protective love. Nix needed to know. And he _would_ know, even if it had to be spelled out for him. Only then would he be able to decide. Only then would he have the strength to get back on his feet again.

Winters rose quietly and went to find him.

* * *

Standing under the dripping eaves of the inn next door, Lewis Nixon cupped his hand over his lighter and lit a cigarette. The brief flicker of yellow illuminated his weary face momentarily. Then the flame faltered and everything returned to the comfort and safety of shadows. He took a drag and tucked the lighter in his pocket, sighed a cloud of smoke up into the rain. _Beautiful_, he thought morosely. _This is my night._

Not so suddenly—perhaps he'd been there awhile—Winters appeared at his side, quiet and collected, tucked in and composed. Never fazed, never ruffled, never weak. The man was a pillar of strength, a paragon of honesty and virtue. For a bare second Nixon suddenly hated him, hated that goodness and wholesomeness (_Cleanliness is next to godliness_, chirped a smug voice in his head) but the hot rancor of his envy shot through his heart like a bullet and bled his animosity out.

He could never hate Dick. Dick was his friend, probably the last one he had. He never judged, never spoke ill, never believed that a man should pay for his mistakes more than once. Even the saddest, most pathetic pieces of human scum still had a chance to be heroes in Dick's world. Men like Nix (_bastards like me_, he thought) don't get many friends like that dealt to them in Life's game of poker. And you never traded those cards in, no matter how high the stakes got.

So when Winters asked him, "Got a minute?", Nixon nodded.

"Yeah," he said, "I've got a minute."

Winters stuck his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down. He spent a long time thinking about what he was going to say. Then, after another lengthy consideration, he spoke. "Remember the story of David and Goliath?"

Nixon grinned. He wasn't much of a religious man—academics seldom are—but every kid knew the story of David and Goliath. Regardless of his depth of knowledge, he said, "Refresh my memory."

Winters smiled a little. He knew that Nix was just humoring him, but somehow it made him glad. "Well, the Philistines were gathered to attack Israel, and the two armies camped out across from each other for forty days. Every day the Philistines would send out Goliath, this giant of a man who carried a huge sword. He would pace up and down the line and call for the Israeli army to come fight him, but the Israelites were so terrified by his size and his fierceness that nobody had the courage to go out and face him.

"Then along came David, just a young boy at the time, who wasn't afraid of Goliath. He went to the King and volunteered to fight this terrible enemy, and even though the King was sure Little David was going to his death, he agreed to let him go."

They stood by each other in the cold rainy night, the red butt of Nixon's cigarette glowing through the murky dark like a one-eyed demon.

Winters slowly continued, "So the next day when Goliath goes out to ask who's man enough to challenge him, here comes Little David. No armor, no sword, no shield. Just a kid with a slingshot and a bag of stones. He's not scared at all when Goliath laughs and threatens to crush him, because to David's eyes, Goliath is just a mortal man, and faith, David says, is greater than any man.

"Well, that gets Goliath good and mad, and he starts going for David with his sword, ready to hack the boy to pieces. But David puts a stone in his sling, gives it a good whirl, and lets it fly right into Goliath's forehead. Bam, Goliath hits the ground dead, and the Philistines are overcome with fear that a young boy was able to kill their toughest, meanest warrior. They turn tail and retreat, and the Israeli army chases them down and defeats them."

That was probably the most Nixon had ever heard Winters speak in the three years he'd known him, barring mission briefings, of course. After a silence long enough to signal the story's conclusion, he asked, "And what happened to Little Davey after that?"

"He became king eventually." Winters paused, staring wistfully at the side of Nixon's face. "Just goes to show that no matter how big a problem is, you can always overcome it when you know who's on your side."

Nixon smiled sardonically. "You really think God's on my side?"

"Maybe," said Winters. "I know I am."

The captain turned to send him a puzzled glance.

"C'mon. I wanna show you something."

Nixon crushed his cigarette under his boot and followed Winters into the inn.

* * *

He couldn't believe his eyes. He blinked, wondered if he'd gone completely off his rocker; but no, there it was, just as real as the redheaded man leaning up against the counter beside it: a virgin bottle of Vat 69. A little beaten, a little worn, but standing in one proud piece.

Nixon stepped forward, his lips moving incoherently. "How did-? Where . . ."

Winters crossed his arms. "Since you made such a habit out of hiding your stuff in my footlocker, I had to hide this one in Lipton's."

Nixon pointed at the bottle and gaped at his friend. "_You_ hid booze in Lip's footlocker?"

Winters shrugged one shoulder, an ashamed little smile pulling his mouth to one side. "I was saving it for when the war ends. Didn't think it'd take this long, or that you'd go through it so fast."

Nixon beamed like a kid on Christmas morning and suddenly remembered what happiness felt like. Good old Dick! He knew he could count on him. What a guy! Saving that last bottle of Vat all along, and just when he needed it the most. He started toward it, grinning. "Jesus, Dick, you're my hero. I don't know how I'm ev—"

Winters suddenly held out his arm and halted Nixon's advance, his fingertips pressing into the other man's chest. The smile on Nixon's face abruptly sank, and he looked utterly confused. "Dick . . . ?"

"It's not that simple," he said, and Nixon took a step backward, bewildered.

"What do ya mean? Hey, if you want some too I'll be glad t—"

"You know what this is about, Nix. No more pretending."

Nixon felt his gut twist with dread. That wonderful feeling of relief and joy was cracking like thin ice over a lake, even though the Vat was less than three feet away. Dick's voice was sharp and hard; something bad was about to happen. Something unspeakable was about to be spoken. Something ugly was about to get dragged screaming out into the light, and everybody who saw it would shriek and jeer and cringe at its ugliness—

"You're an alcoholic, Nix," said Winters levelly, his face taking on that look of solemnity that always appeared when he was giving orders or reading a list of casualties. "You're destroying your career. You've already destroyed your family, and now you're destroying your life. You could have stopped it any time you wanted, but it's easier being drunk than being Lewis Nixon, isn't it."

Nixon's mouth opened in mute horror.

"I don't know how it started," Winters continued. "I wasn't there, otherwise I would have done something about it before it got this bad. I may have come into the picture late, but I'll be damned if I sit here a minute longer and watch you circle the drain like a man who's already given up."

Nixon was suddenly afraid—_petrified_—by this confrontation. Good Old Dick with his kind voice and solid, friendly demeanor had vanished. In his place stood an intimidating man, a man who swore and said hurtful things and didn't make people feel good anymore. Something fundamental was shattering in Nixon's mind. Everything he had known about his friend had vanished in a cloud of magician's smoke, and he found himself groping for any familiar trace of the man he was so fond of.

"Jeez, Dick, you don't have to yell at me," he said meekly. "I'm sorry I was ever born, alright? Have a heart for Pete's sake—"

"I _do_ have a heart," Winters snapped, causing Nixon to retreat another step. "Why do you think I'm doing this? Because I'm worried about your performance?"

The light in his eyes shifted, deepening with something unknown and powerful. "It's because I love you, Nix. You're my best friend and I feel like I'm losing you. I don't wanna lose you, not this way."

His words came calmly and smoothly, one after another. If the sunrise could speak, it would talk like Winters, in that same steady, unwavering timber. "It's already started to betray you, Nix. _I_ wouldn't, and you know it."

A knot rose in Nixon's throat and his eyes began to burn. He _did_ know it. Just like he knew Dick would give him the coat off his back without even asking if he needed it. Just like he knew Dick would drag him out of a screaming Axis firestorm or jump into the Hudson if he were drowning, no matter how far gone he was. Even his wife (_ex-wife_, he reminded himself) didn't possess loyalty of that caliber. But why did Dick have to shake the hornet's nest and bring out the whole furious, stinging swarm? Why couldn't he just leave the matter alone? It would have solved itself in time . . .

Nixon felt as if he were getting knocked down and helped back up, punched in the nose and then hugged to death. Tough love is what they called it, he remember vaguely. Only tough wasn't the word for it. He was getting taken to the cleaners, and right now his bruised, beaten heart had a halo of twittering birds flying around it, just like in the cartoons.

He was seized with the urge to laugh all of the sudden, laugh at the absurdity of his thoughts. Then, just as he reached the point where he would unhinge and crawl weeping and ashamed into Dick's arms, his defenses finally kicked in: Sarcasm, Denial, and good old Bullshit.

Nixon feigned reasonability, and his performance was flawless. "Dick, you're not gonna lose me. I'm right here in front of you."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. Quit acting stupid."

"It's not . . . look, I know what you mean, Dick, but I'm fine. Hell, I feel better right now that I have all goddamn week, that's for sure. Yeah, I've been having a rough time lately and I've been a son of a bitch, you're right about that. But you were there for me and—"

Winters scowled. Nixon felt a cold, clammy sweat break out on his neck.

"—and now I'm over the worst of it. I mean," he shrugged feebly, "I don't have much left to lose, do I?"

Winters nodded his head as if everything had become clear to him. "I see," he murmured. "Alright, Nix. We'll do it your way. You're the map guy after all, right?"

"Hey, whatever you say." He grinned, but his eyes flirted back and forth between Winters and the bottle.

"So you know what happens when you come to a fork in the road, don't you?"

An ominous growl of thunder rolled though Nixon's mind. His sour stomach churned. _Oh no. Please, Dick . . ._

"You take one road or the other," answered Winters coolly. "You can't take both. You can't go down the middle. You can't turn around. You have to choose one and stick with it. No going back."

Nixon had begun shaking his head. "Don't do it, Dick."

"You're gonna make a decision right now, Lew. I'm not gonna make it for you."

"Please, Dick. I'm aski—I'm _begging_ you, don't—"

"Sink's not gonna make it for you and General Taylor's not gonna make it for you. Nobody is gonna make it but you. Understand?"

"No, you—I mean—_yeah_, I understand, but I can't do it."

"You have to. I know you can. Little Davey did."

Nixon set his jaw, clenched his fists, tried to calm his pounding heart. "Why are you doing this to me, Dick? In Christ's name, why!"

Winters' eyebrows rose up in disbelief. And it wasn't because of Nixon's plaintive outburst. "Because I care about you, that's why. And I'm afraid if I don't say something now, I may never get another chance. I'm not being cruel or unreasonable, Lew, I just want you to get better."

"But I _am_ better, see? It's not as big a problem as you think, I'm telling you." _Who am I trying to convince here? _"Look, can't we just put all this behind us and let—"

Winters' fist slammed down onto the counter, rattling the bottle of whiskey. "No!"

Nixon nearly leaped out of his skin, his heart hammering a _molto allegro_ tempo in his ears. That shout had been like a gunshot going off in a library. Jesus Christ in Heaven, what in the hell had come over him? He'd never seen Dick so pissed off and so . . .

Winters drew his lips in a thin line, his face ashen. Almost as if he were scaring himself. "No more excuses, Lew. I can't help if you if don't wanna be helped, so here it is."

He gestured to the Vat 69. "Road One." He pointed to his chest. "Road Two. One or the other. Take as long as you want, but you are not leaving this room until you've made a decision. And you _will_ honor that command, Captain."

Nixon gulped down his queasiness. He felt faint. He felt ill. He felt like he'd spent the whole night killing one shot after another and now he was waking up with the worst hangover known to man. His skull was buzzing, his heart was collapsing. Something in there was dying a slow bloody death, that was for sure.

Dick had no right to ask this of him. Dick knew he needed a little bit of the brew every now and then—what was the big deal? Everybody drank. Well, everybody except Dick that is, but Dick is perfect, so he doesn't count. How could he make me choose between him and the Vat? He's being unfair. He doesn't even know half the story, either. Sure, I get a little carried away sometimes (_sometimes? Are you serious?_), but like the rest of us mere mortals we all have our little flaws and vices. Why's he snapping his cap at me?

(_Because he loves you, idiot. Look at him! Look him in the eyes, you selfish, miserable bastard, and see what you've done._)

It's not my fault . . .

(_It's all my fault._)

He'll forgive me, he always has. He can't hold a grudge. I'm his best friend. What's he gonna do, never speak to me again?

(_Maybe. Do I really wanna find out?_)

I need it. Damn it, I need it so bad—

(_but I need him, too_)

—I can't live without it, I don't know _how_ to live without it. My whole life . . .

(_Dick's the best friend I've ever had—why am I even thinking about this? I shouldn't be._)

Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ what am I doing here? I shouldn't be here. Where am I? I don't belong here. I've made a huge, huge mistake. It's this goddamn war. This _war_ is what's doing it. Oh Jesus, what did I get myself into? I could die out here. I _am_ dying out here. Christ in Heaven. What day is it? How far from home, how many miles, how many lives . . .

And then, abruptly, the hurricane in Nixon's head went silent. He looked up, his face a void, his eyes frosted and vacant, gazing at something a thousand yards away. Lights are on but nobody's home. He was only dimly aware that he was still functioning and upright, lost inside his own head and peering from the windows of his eye sockets like a worried child waiting for Daddy to come home. He swallowed dryly, his tongue a heavy wad of cotton. And then, slowly, quietly, he walked toward Dick.

He paused a few inches away, and for a moment Winters' face relaxed and got ready to smile. He'd probably clap Nix on the shoulder and give him a shake, blue eyes winking cleverly, and maybe they'd go find someplace to sleep in this rotting dump called Günzberg, and Nix would pretend he didn't want to get up in the morning just to cause Dick unnecessary hell, and they'd laugh their way through breakfast with Lip and Harry, and then they'd jump into the jeep and still be best pals . . .

But then Nixon raised his head to look at Winters, briefly. His face was afflicted with shame and helpless remorse as he wrapped his hand around the neck of the bottle and picked it up. _I will never be able to look at him again. _

When he turned away he thought he heard Dick open his mouth to speak, but Nixon strode away before he could say anything, making his escape. He didn't want to hear what a rotten, fucked up bastard he was—he already knew. He just wanted to take this goddamn booze (_it's mine anyway_) and get the hell out of this room. He knew that he was out of control, knew he was a powerless slave to the greedy alcoholic monster inside of him. Most of all, he knew he'd lost something precious and irreplaceable tonight, and he hated himself to the core.

_And I'll hate myself tomorrow_, he thought, his eyes stinging as he stepped out into the rain and was instantly soaked. _And I'll hate myself the day after that. And the day after that. Forever and ever, amen. The end._

The end.

Indoors, Winters stood alone in the dark. Shocked. Riveted. Unable to believe what had just happened. He took a breath. He pinched his lips together and struck the counter with his fist. He leaned over, resting his elbows on the polished wood, and ran his hands through his hair.

He suddenly recalled, with great clarity and detail, a snowy, foggy, freezing night in the Ardennes. He recalled bare hands being warmed by another's, and a blanket, and a smile. He recalled thinking that if he died next week or lived to a hundred, there would be no bond like the bond between himself and Lewis Nixon.

He still believed it, even now.

_"You're a good man, Lew."_

_"I know."_

* * *

The mud was thick the next morning, a slimy blackish sludge. The mist hung low over the countryside, hiding the landscape in its blanket. Easy slung their gear into the trucks and prepared to move out with the rest of the division.

Lipton dropped his bag next to Winters' and noticed that Nixon's rucksack was missing, the one with the scorch marks on the left side and the tear in the bottom that sometimes showed off tightly-coiled maps. He glanced over at the major, standing tiredly beside the jeep. His face was clean and freshly-shaven, but he looked tired, used up. Burdened by some invisible gravity. "Sir?" he ventured.

Winters blinked with surprise, returning to the present. "Yes?"

"Is Captain Nixon riding with us today?"

Winters drew in a long breath. "I guess not." He noticed Lipton's uneasy expression and gave him a reassuring smile. "It's probably Welsh's turn to get heckled today."

Lipton grinned obligingly, but he seemed to sense the effort Winters put into his words. They sounded strained and brittle, weakened somehow. He wondered if Nixon's absence had anything to do with it.

Winters rapped on the jeep's hood and shouted, "Alright, 2nd Battalion, let's fall in and move out!"

There came answering cries of "Yessir!" and "Heigh ho!" and Winters climbed into the driver's seat without another word. Lipton slid in beside him, casting one last look at his superior's face before the jeep lurched into gear.

For some reason, Lipton found himself missing the gloomy shape of Captain Nixon sitting in the back seat. Something about the way Winters would turn his head—checking up on him, maybe—and then turn back with a half-smile on his lips; it was comforting, a sign that the company's pulse was still ticking strong.

But if you asked Lipton, that pulse was only as good as the heart and brain behind it . . . and right now the company's heart looked awful lonely behind the wheel.


	4. Ghosts

_April 27, 1945_

Everything about this patrol felt wrong.

He wasn't even supposed to be here, but he was; clutching an M50 in his sweaty hands, the smell of gunmetal and wet ash in his nostrils. Colonel Sink had recommended he go (_You're too valuable to rot here at Regiment_, he had said with a gruff smile and a firm squeeze to the shoulder, _and 2nd Battalion needs you more than me, son_). Polite lies. Nixon knew Sink wanted him gone, so he was kicked out like an unwanted dog to comb the streets with the noncoms and their officers. Familiar faces flanked both sides of him: Shifty, Lip, Martin, Talbert, Perc, Welsh, Babe, Toye—

_Toye? Didn't he lose a leg at Bastogne?_

Nixon found that his mind had turned to mud. He could feel it slopping around inside his skull with every step he took down this darkened, deserted boulevard.

_What's Toye doing here? And Muck, he died in a foxhole with Penkala. When did Buck get back? Where'd they all . . ._

Nixon suddenly grew sleepy, disconnected from reality. It didn't matter that he was walking with dead men. The patrol. They had to finish it. But it was going to finish _them_, oh yes, and nobody knew but Nix. He knew because he was the intelligence officer. It was his job to know things, like where they were going, what they would find there, why his wife divorced him, where the danger lay.

The danger wasn't lurking in those black-mouth doorways or empty-eye-socket windows of the scorched structures around them, but was _there_, in that _thing_ at the end of the street. What was it? A cave? A hive? Some kind of hellish, ungodly Death's Love-Nest is what it was, but Nixon's eyes couldn't seem to focus. He could see it clearly in his mucky mud-mind, though. He opened his mouth to shout a warning to the advancing men, but whiskey rushed from his throat in a torrent and his words were drowned out with a gurgle of burning alcohol.

Nixon dropped his weapon and fell to his knees, making no sound. It was as if he were a ghost himself. He clutched his throat and tried to suck in a breath to scream, but the booze kept pouring out like an endless gush of vomit. He recognized the taste. (Nothing but the finest for Mrs Nixon's baby boy.) He screwed his eyes shut and struck the ground with his fists.

_I'm such a goddamn failure. I can't do anything right, not even the things that are supposed to come naturally. Like living. What a waste of resources. What a waste of flesh._

He began searching for his M50—where was it? It had fallen somewhere to his left—and then he lifted his head to see Winters walk past him, dutifully leading the patrol toward the doom they didn't know about.

"Dick, stop! Wait! Don't go in there!" Nixon spurted, but his tongue floundered uselessly in the river of alcohol escaping his body. He threw himself forward and nearly caught Winters by the ankle; his fingernails scraped against the dull leather heel and then slipped away. There was a sound like a petrol can being hurled through the storefront window of a bottle shop in Stürzelberg, and that was when Lew knew he had lost Dick forever. The man hadn't even looked behind him to see who had scratched at his boot.

(You're an alcoholic, Nix. That's why. You worthless insect. You revolting glutton.)

Nixon scrambled over the uneven ground, churning up mounds of gravel as he fought against an unknown force that was holding him by the shoulders.

(It's Death, Lew. And after it gets your friends, it's gonna get _you._)

_I'm here! Somebody please look at me! Dick! Harry! Lip! You're all gonna die, don't you see! It's gonna get you, it's gonna—_

And then that hellish, ungodly love-nest exploded like a thousand land mines going off at once. The ground heaved and churned. The men lost their balance and fell, clinging to the shuddering earth. When Nixon finally got the courage to raise his head from the dust and rubble, he saw a massive black swarm of German infantry—all faceless, featureless agents of evil—roiling down the street toward Easy. A vile poison being purged from the planet's festering core.

_Fall back! Fall back!_ Nixon waved his arms wildly, helplessly, and watched the company clamber into crouches like the brave soldiers they were and fire their weapons into the cloud of oncoming destruction.

_No, no! You can't kill them! You're all gonna die! For Chrissakes, can anyone hear me! You're all—_

And then, like reaching a familiar story's inexorable conflict, the men of E Company began to fall. David Webster—the writer, the kid from Harvard—was the first to go; a cluster of angry bullets thudded through his chest like darts, sending up a misty red nebula of blood. _Who'll write his letters now?_ thought Nixon numbly.

George Luz was next, his body severed at the torso by a .50 caliber machine gun blast. (_None of us will ever laugh again._) Bull Randleman was killed by a shot to the head. He fell back onto the road and bled a dark red pool from the hole in his skull. (_There goes the best soldier in Easy_.) Frank Perconte was obliterated by a grenade. Donald Malarkey folded in half over a German bayonet. Carwood Lipton was overtaken by a mob of Krauts and trampled to death under their heavy black boots. And Ron Speirs—the immortal, the infamous captain who feared nothing—caught a piece of jagged shrapnel in his neck that nearly took his head off. His body remained standing, still alive and not knowing it was dead, until it was bowled over by the advancing enemy.

It happened slowly, this ghastly, unutterable horror that assaulted Lewis Nixon's astonished eyes, and there was enough time to mentally compose the obituaries of every single fatality. It was sickeningly cruel, the sounds of splattering gore and bullets ripping through flesh and . . .

_Make it stop, God, make it stop, please._

"Fall back! Easy Company, _fall back_!"

It wasn't God.

It was Richard Winters, and he was calling for retreat.

There he was, just up the street a few dozen yards, every bit the hero even when ordering his men to flee. Holding his ground, sweeping his arm as he ushered the troops behind him, spraying the enemy with automatic fire between shouted orders. The man was an avenging angel set against the legions of infernal Hell, and he spat fearlessly into the face of Satan himself.

Nixon's heart lurched against his ribs. He thought he would be sick with relief. Finally, this was all going to end! _Hurry, Dick! Let's get them home! I'd shout with you but I can't speak for the liquor (it speaks for me now)—but you can do it! You're a major for Pete's sake! Good Old Dick, I always knew we could count on—_

A shadow passed across the sky, darkening the street. Nixon's joy drained out of him and he knew. He could feel it, and oh God please, you can't be serious. You couldn't. Why would you do that to one of your own—

"Dick!" He retched, gasped, and suddenly there was air in his lungs again. "Dick, run! Look out!"

Winters turned at the sound of a familiar voice. Death finally let go of Nixon's shoulders and he stumbled toward his unsuspecting friend. (Run, little Lewie. Save him if you can.) Only if he got to him would he be safe. His mind would protect them both, muddy as it was. His mind could keep them alive, keep the Philistines at bay. They could hold them off together with their slingshots and their pebbles . . .

"RUN, DICK!" He couldn't scream loud enough. The air felt glorious in his lungs. "RUN!"

And then everything froze. Froze? No. There was movement. Slow, slow movement. Millimeter by millimeter, a world moving through glass. Nixon for the first time saw his surroundings in all their sharpness and rich, deep color: the red blood staining the rubble; the white skin of dead bodies; the shocking blue of Dick's eyes; the deep purple of the night sky; the orange sparks from the 75mm mortar round suspended in the air behind Dick's shoulder.

_Oh God. How could you punish me this way?_

Nixon closed his eyes and felt himself break free as time resumed its normal flow. He felt the ground rise up and slam into his face. He felt his eardrums rupture from the explosion. He felt a wave of fiery heat roll over his back. His heart liquefied with dread.

_Dick. Jesus Christ, _Dick_._

He pushed himself to his hands and knees and peered through the cloud of sooty ash. It stung his eyes, acrid and thick. He coughed dryly. He was so thirsty . . .

Dick Winters slowly emerged from the curtain of smoke, shuffling forward weakly, unsteadily. Nixon leaped to his feet with a shout and ran to him.

"Dick! How in the hell did you survi—"

Dick fell forward and was caught at the last second by Nixon, his legs buckling and dragging them both to the ground.

"Dick! Dick, what's wrong? What's . . ." Nixon trailed off as he looked over his friend's shoulder. Nausea surged through his stomach. "Oh, Jesus Christ," he uttered.

Half of him was missing. Great big pieces of Dick Winters, gone. Nixon could see the yellow-white bone of his shattered spine poking up from tangled masses of pulpy red flesh. Grayish-blue coils of intestines dangling freely from his missing back. Kidneys, liver, stomach—

(_put 'em back in, put 'em back in, put him back together_)

—all vital, all irreplaceable, all belonging to Dick. There was a slimy shimmer of movement visible behind the broken cage of exposed ribs.

_Lungs, oh Christ, he's still breathing_.

"Dick?" Nixon gently pulled the man off his chest and stared.

Winters' face was pristine, groomed, his hair parted neatly and combed back. Still beautifully whole and unspoiled. His eyes hung half-open in that peaceful, listless way Nixon remembered seeing so many times in an attic in Holland. They still sparkled with life, though there was no life in him anymore. His lips were set in a faint, barely-noticeable smile. Nixon knew that smile. That was _his_ smile, the just-poured-piss-on-your-face-and-by-the-way-good-morning smile. The yeah-we'll-see-if-you-take-me-to-Chicago-someday smile. The you're-a-good-man-Lew smile. The you're-my-best-friend-and-I-love-you smile.

The wail that had been building in Nixon's chest burst out in a howl that echoed across the face of the earth and rocked the foundation of Heaven. A heavy mass was ripped from his body's core, and now the empty hole filled with blood and tears and a degree of anguish so jagged that it sawed into his soul like a serrated knife. Nixon felt his upper body start caving in, and he became suddenly, painfully aware of how much Dick had been a part of him; and when he had died, he'd taken everything that belonged to him: every word, every sound. Every heart.

That was why, in this moment of abject despair, Nixon felt like nothing more than a hollow shell of dried skin. Gone with the next whisper of breeze, never to be seen again.

It wasn't fair, it wasn't right, _it wasn't supposed to end like this. Why, Dick, why?_

Nixon buried his face into Winters' collar and cried against the cooling freckled skin of his neck, onto the oak leaves of the rank he would be buried with, great wracking sobs of grief that no mortal had known before this cursed day. No last words of apology. No goodbyes. Just a dead soldier in his arms. He sat down and held the corpse of Dick Winters against himself, rocking the body gently, like a sleeping child.

_Wake up, Dick. Don't leave me here alone. I need you, I miss you, please come back, come back . . ._

Heavy footfalls sounded, then the tall black forms of German soldiers strode out from the noxious cloud of smoke. Their faces were rigid and devoid of humanity, their strides calculated and unnatural. _Machines_, Nixon thought hatefully. _They're just fucking machines and they killed my best friend and they don't even have the goddamn ability to feel remorse or pride . . ._

The machine-men gathered around Nixon and wordlessly pried Winters' body from his arms.

"Hey! _No_! Let go of him, you sonsabitches!"

Nixon sprang up like a wild dog and lunged at the men carrying Dick away. He grappled at their arms, beat their shoulders with his fists, but it was to no avail; these living gargoyles were still made of stone.

"You can't do this! Give him back! You can't take him from me, you bastards, he's _mine_! Give him back to me!"

The futility of his efforts brought tears of shame to his eyes. He was so weak, so powerless against these forces of evil. He couldn't even save his best friend. How pathetic does a man have to be to reach this depth of impotence? How could he have allowed this to happen to himself?

Fury rose within Nixon and he bent down, scraping up handfuls of gravel and hurling them at his foes. They bounced painlessly off of their coats. He swore. He cursed. He wept. And then he watched with horror as the Germans pulled out their gleaming swords and proceeded to hack Dick Winters to pieces.

Feathers filled the air. A chorus of young Belgian girls sang mournful hymns through the candlelight. And Lewis Nixon had never wanted to die so badly.

"NO!" he screamed in agony, his mind at last shattering in a burst of green glass. "NO NO—"

"Nix! Nix, for the lovva Christ, would ya wake up!"

Harry Welsh let out a startled yelp as Nixon bolted upright from his cot, panting for breath. He was wild-eyed, disoriented, soaked with sweat. His skin was almost yellow-green, and for a moment Welsh was terrified by his comrade's appearance. He barely had time to say, "Jesus, buddy, what's—" before Nixon leaned over the side of his cot and vomited hard.

Welsh darted back to avoid the splatter of brown bile and stomach acid, disgusted and stunned. Nixon retched again, his back arching from the force of his nausea, but nothing came up. He continued to heave dryly until his body could take no more; he sank weakly down onto his chest, half-hanging off the cot. At first Welsh thought he was coughing, but the rhythm was all wrong—those were sobs he was hearing.

"Lew? Hey, are you okay?" Carefully avoiding the puddle on the floor, Welsh leaned close and lifted Nixon's head in his hands.

Tears ran in hot salty rivulets from the captain's dark, bloody-spiderweb eyes. He looked right through Welsh, his cracked lips trembling and trailing silver strings of spittle.

"Lewis, God Almighty . . ."

"What's all the racket in here?" Lipton appeared in the doorway, still in his PT-style pajamas. He narrowed his eyes at the wretched sight of Captain Nixon and caught his breath.

Welsh looked up, his face blanched. "You better get Doc in here."

* * *

The two of them loitered outside Nixon's door, glancing in as Eugene Roe shined a light into Nixon's eyes and spoke to him in a low Louisiana murmur.

"Somethin's wrong."

Lipton turned.

Welsh stared back at him gravely, cigarette wedged between his lips. "I dunno what it is, but it's getting worse. You seen him these last few weeks? Guy's a fuckin' wreck."

"I know."

"Doesn't talk to anyone unless he's reporting, doesn't take care of himself, doesn't . . ." He trailed off. "He doesn't care anymore. What happened to him? I mean, I heard his wife divorced him, but I never saw him wear a wedding ring before, either. Hell, I figured him a single man the way he acted, but this is ridiculous. It wasn't his woman he was crying over just now, that's for sure."

Lipton found himself searching for excuses. He didn't know why. "He had a bad jump during Varsity. Most of his stick died before they even got outta the plane."

"Yeah, I heard about that. Shame. Y' think that's what's eatin' him?"

Lipton gazed into the room. Roe was sermonizing the importance of food, water and sleep to the human body, but Nixon sat in front of him and stared into space, as deaf as a post. Lip was no medic, but he knew what shell shock looked like.

He also knew it had been almost a month since he had last seen Winters and Nixon in the same place at the same time.

"Must be nerves," Lipton murmured, the standard catch-all to mystery ailments. "He'll snap out of it once we're on the move again."

"Hope so," Welsh grunted, grinding his cigarette butt on the door frame. "I hate this fuckin' place."

"Yeah," Lipton sighed, unable to free his eyes from Nixon's sad, hunched form. "Me too."

* * *

The world was a palette of wet grays. The buildings. The trees. The muddy roads. As if some awful leech had dug its way under the earth's skin and sucked all the color out of it. The bleak April sky hung low over the Allied-occupied town of Mindelheim, sweating monochromatic curtains of drizzle onto the empty streets and sleeping transport trucks. No man was willing to step outside if he could help it, so activity aside from sentry duty and patrol was minimal. The dreary weather wore heavily on a man. Perhaps none so heavily as Winters.

He stood at the window of his billet, cupping in his hands a mug of tea that had long since gone cold. He stared out through the cracked panes like a lifeless mannequin, his face locked in the wide-eyed expression of one who was deeply lost in thought. He was a million miles away—and he'd been there all morning.

He was so far removed from the present that he didn't hear the soft rap at his door, and Lipton had to call to him twice before he finally came back to the realm of the living. "_Sir_."

Winters blinked and turned, surprised. "Yes?" he answered distantly.

Lipton shut the door behind him. "How're you holding up?"

"Good, good. What's up, Lip?" He set his cold mug on his desk. It was cluttered and untidy, Lip noticed. Winters was not an untidy man.

Lipton's large brown eyes fell shyly to the floor for a moment. "I wanted to talk to you about Nixon, sir."

Dick felt his heart lodge in his throat. He tried to gulp it down. "What about him?" he asked evenly.

"Well . . . he's in a real bad way lately. I dunno if you've noticed."

Winters barely nodded. "Yeah. I've noticed."

"We're all starting to get worried. Doc says he looks anemic. He's not eating much, and he's not sleeping that well, either. Harry—" Lip's words poured out in a nervous rush. He anxiously scratched the back of his head. "This morning Nix woke him up. Rolling around, making these noises . . . Harry got him up and then he got sick all over the place, started crying. That's when we called in Doc to check him out. We don't know . . ." He trailed off.

Winters hesitated to ask—he was certain he didn't want to know. "Crying?"

"Yeah." Lipton glanced up sheepishly. "He's not talking to us anymore."

"Probably just a bad hangover," Winters said. "Cup of coffee and a cold shower'll fix him right up."

"I dunno. This . . . it's not a hangover. If it was, Doc woulda said something." Lip fidgeted. "He's really bad off, Dick. I don't think we've got anything that'll fix him. He's . . . he's in a lot of pain. In here." He tapped his shoulder, about the place where his heart would be.

Winters gazed at Lipton, his face blank but his eyes turbulent with emotion.

"I know it's none of my business, but I can't help feeling things aren't right between the two of you."

Panic sent a wave of adrenaline coursing through Dick's body. He knew an issue this snarled and ugly was bound to come up sooner or later, but he never expected it to happen this quickly, much less bare itself on such a personal, forward level. So Lipton was aware of it. Welsh was probably in on it too, being that he worked so closely with Nix. God only knows who else had noticed by now—probably the whole company. And this was no place to start breaking apart because of personal grievances or fallings-out.

Winters drew in a long breath and leaned against his desk with his gaze fixed to the floor. "I'm not a meddler, Lip. Nix didn't want to be helped, so . . ." He sighed, a short frustrated puff.

Lipton stood quietly for a few moments. "So that's it? You've just given up on him?"

"He gave up on me first."

There was a pause, then: "It was his drinking, wasn't it?"

Winters nodded. "Yeah. I tried, Lip. Harder than I think anyone else has. God knows I didn't wanna lose him, but it's inevitable. I figure the sooner I detach myself, the easier it'll be for . . . to get on with my life."

Lipton stared, incredulous. "This isn't like you, Dick."

"I know."

"He's your friend. You, I mean you two've been inseparable since before Toccoa."

"I know."

Lipton took a step forward. "You should go see him," he said softly. "Talk to him. If there was ever a time when he needed a friend, it's now. You're not just gonna let him fall by the wayside, are you?"

Winters lifted his head to stare emphatically at Lip. "There's nothing I can do about it. I've washed my hands of him."

Lipton's worried expression hardened suddenly. "No, you haven't. I can see him all around you. In your eyes. Under your skin. He's haunting you."

Winters went stock still, perhaps amazed by his second lieutenant's uncharacteristic flash of indignation.

Lipton scowled, though his eyes were heavy with sadness. "And with all due respect, sir, I hope he does it for the rest of your life." He straightened and gave a quick salute.

Winters' body subconsciously returned gesture, even though his mind had walked out of the room with Lipton. Military programming at its finest. Once the footsteps had faded, the major sank heavily into his desk chair, gripping the thin wooden arms in a white-knuckled grasp. He breathed slowly and deeply, trying to calm his pounding heart. Trying to work it through, trying to solve it with his mind. It wasn't working this time. He couldn't focus. He couldn't think. His brain, his greatest asset, was rendered suddenly and woefully useless to him.

_For crying out loud, get a hold of yourself, _he scolded himself. _You've gotta snap out of it_. _Don't let it consume you like_—

Echoes of Stürzelberg flashed unbidden through his head. Images of a back seat and Nixon's brooding, sullen face. Comforting words bouncing off of a steel exterior like a child's rubber ball. Winters had been the child then, Nixon the impenetrable stronghold. But now the roles had been reversed. Winters had thrown in the towel, just like Nixon, and now there was nothing left to do but take his hands off the controls and let the airplane of his existence tailspin into the sea.

Winters pressed a hand to his cheek numbly, obscuring half of his face with his trembling fingers. It was an unconscious attempt to hide his eyes from the truth unveiling before them. It was a cruel, ugly and unimaginably painful truth, but he was beginning to understand its purpose now. He was beginning to see that sometimes it was easier to start anew than to try to fix something that was broken beyond repair. Count your losses, save yourself, damn the consequences.

Lewis Nixon was suffering because he wanted to. He could have faced reality—faced his addiction—and fought it tooth and nail, but he decided to lay down and let it kick him to death instead. He had chosen to suffer.

A flash of heat rose to Winters' face, along with the pressure in his sinuses and the burning in his eyes that signaled the onset of a fearsome burst of tears. _Why, Nix? Why wouldn't you just let me help you? If you had just taken my hand, I—_

And then, almost as if a ghost had leaned down and whispered in his ear, there came the answer in the form of a question: _Why wouldn't you just let Lip help _you_?_

Winters sat in his chair, spine rigid, face wan, mouth open. _Because Nix was punishing himself. He was punishing himself for being an alcoholic, for being too weak to say no. And now I'm punishing myself for being too weak to help him._

"God," he breathed, and a tear from each eye spilled over his golden-red eyelashes and slipped down his cheeks. "I'm just like him."

Remorse crash-landed into his body like a mortar round, stripping him of his strength and vigor, and suddenly he was weakened to the point of limpness, shaking as badly as he had shook in the frozen forest of Bastogne. (_When only Nix had been there to keep me warm. Oh God, Lew, I've let you down. I'm so sorry . . ._ )

Winters bowed his head, pressing his fingertips to his brow, and wept.

The mercilessness of the truth knows no limit.

And it almost always comes too late.


	5. Landsberg

_April 29, 1945_

Life stirred in Mindelheim. The town was teaming with activity, its soggy streets already drying in the warm morning sun. Transport trucks, jeeps, and DUKWs stretched in single file down the Hauptstraße like eager schoolchildren waiting impatiently for recess. A mood of cheer and enthusiasm flourished among the troops, as well as hope that there would be some excitement in the next town. With the steady decline enemy activity, the men were beginning to find themselves restless and with little to do. A small fire fight (or a flock of lonely village girls) would be a welcome change, they kidded, though only partially. Nobody felt like risking their lives now, not after surviving Carentan, Bastogne, and Haguenau.

While it wasn't as thrilling as battle, the NCOs didn't mind the chores that came with relocation; they were glad to be on the move again. The officers, with feelings mutual to their subordinates, were hard at work. Lieutenants coordinated the loading of supplies, captains checked off company rosters, and colonels relayed the latest intelligence from Regiment. Every hand was full and every boot was kicking. In this state of buzzing activity, the lone major of 2nd Battalion found himself being pulled in one direction or another by every other man that crossed his path.

"Major Winters, sir, is it alright if I authorize . . ."

"Sir, Sergeant Stokes is missing a fuel can, do you know where I might . . ."

"Major, sir, have you seen Martin? I need to talk to him about the . . ."

"Excuse me, sir, but Colonel Strayer wants to know if . . ."

Winters, with less than three hours' sleep under his belt, blinked himself into a state of awareness and tried to answer the hail of questions to the best of his abilities. Focusing had become a conscious effort these days. His mind was in other places, and it kept disappearing with increasing frequency as the weary weeks wore on. It was a troubling development, and Winters wished he knew how to suppress it.

_I can ride it out_, he thought._ I can last. It can't be much longe_r.

He stared out at the buildings of Mindelheim with faraway eyes. The Germans were retreating, the Axis Alliance slowly cracking like thin ice burdened by too much weight. Two weeks ago 325,000 German troops in the Ruhr pocket surrendered; yesterday over 2,500 added to that number. One didn't have to be in Berlin to see how deep the fissures ran. It seemed like every mile ventured into this broken, beautiful country brought them a day closer to the end. Winters had a definite gut feeling about it now, could almost see it on the horizon: the first washed-out rays of sunlight staining the eastern sky. Victory. Peace. Home. The worst was over—some part of him knew it was—and he and his men had survived.

At least in body.

Winters' gaze kept drifting through the dense crowd of faded green, looking for a familiar tousle of dark hair or a slow, loping stride that belonged to no one else. He didn't know why he did it now, of all times, when there was nothing he could say to make it right again and all hope of reconciliation was lost. It seemed like he'd always been looking for him one way or another, trying to find the one shadow in an unlit room, diving deeper into the ocean's darkness to chase a disappearing hand. Useless, hopeless, dangerous.

_If I hadn't turned back it would have taken me, too_, he rationalized. _I had to save myself._

Because I wasn't man enough to save us both.

Winters stood by the jeep with his helmet shadowing his eyes, in the midst of a hundred troopers on this beautiful morning, and could not have felt more alone if he were the last man on earth.

A hand on his shoulder brought him to attention, and he turned to see Captain Speirs gazing at him with an unblinking, dark-eyed stare. "We're leaving, sir," he said quietly, and Winters noticed that the men had almost finished piling into the trucks. Engines were growling and gears were shifting in earnest.

"Right," Winters muttered, stepping toward the driver's side door.

An arm suddenly extended, blocking his path. The major looked at the obstruction with blank incomprehension, then passed a frown toward Speirs .

Speirs was not fazed. "You're tired," he stated, then paused as if he wanted to elaborate—but he didn't. "May I drive, sir?"

Winters was inclined to argue the implication of his impaired driving abilities, but he knew that Speirs was only trying to be helpful. Getting lost in thought—or sleep—behind the wheel was an outcome he didn't care to experience.

With a resigned nod he stood aside and let the captain climb into the driver's seat, and a few moments later joined him on the adjacent side. Almost immediately the sleepless hours and long nights of mental turmoil caught up to Winters; his body relaxed as Speirs shifted gear and began following a DUKW.

As they were pulling out of Mindelheim, Speirs said, with his gaze fixed on the road ahead of them, "Lipton told me you've been having a tough time lately, sir."

A few alarmed beats of Winters' heart brought him out of his sleepy trance. "Really. What else did he tell you?"

"Everything."

Winters shut his eyes, feeling himself sink a little bit deeper into the quicksand of this hopeless situation. He was so tired he almost didn't care who knew about it anymore. Hell, maybe he ought to go ahead and make an announcement to the company later, turn it into everyone's problem. It'd certainly save some time. These meddling attempts to repair the irreparable were becoming a nuisance.

Speirs continued the one-sided conversation as casually as if he were talking about the weather or his favorite meal. "I want you to know, sir, in all honesty, I couldn't care less who you choose for your friends. I don't care if_ I'm_ your friend, but I hope that at least you might remember me as a good soldier."

Winters smiled thinly. "You're a good soldier, Ron. There was never any doubt in my mind about that."

Speirs nodded to himself. "Thank you, sir." He paused a beat. "I think some men are better at being soldiers than men. And I know some men are better at being men than soldiers. It's hard trying to be both, and it's even harder trying to be one you're not."

The convoy took a slow turn through a cool copse of trees, and Speirs and Winters leaned to the right as the jeep followed the road.

Speirs continued, "Sometimes the best we do isn't good enough. Sometimes it doesn't matter how hard we try. Only one thing in life is certain—that's it's going to end someday. Maybe tomorrow, maybe seventy years from now. There's nothing we can do about it. Our stories have already been written and put on the shelf. It's out of our hands."

He stared ahead, guiding the wheel with his palm.

"Some things weren't meant to change," he resumed in a low, soft murmur. "Some people can't be changed, no matter how hard we push or how loud we yell. Who they are is who they were meant to be, something that was decided long before they were ever born."

Winters forced a grin, his body bouncing as the jeep's tires jostled over a few bumps. "You're one of those Fate and Destiny types, aren't you?"

Speirs smiled sedately. "We're all dead, you know. It just hasn't happened yet. Nothing we do in life matters. All that matters is how we spend the time between now and the end, and who we choose to spend it with."

In the passenger seat Winters sat, mute with thought, and studied a crack in the windshield, feeling Speirs' words more than he heard them. A blossom of pain bloomed in his chest as he recalled the way Nixon had smiled at him that night in Bastogne. (_Thanks for being a man worth following. Not many of your kind left._) The ache radiated from his heart, spreading its dismal pollen to every extremity until he was nothing but one big hurt.

"Right now," Speirs went on, "I'm serving in the finest company of men I will ever know, and the finest one of all is sitting right beside me." He glanced at Winters briefly, his face solemn and honest, bereft of flattery, before returning his gaze to the road. "When the war is over I'm going to England to see my wife and son, and I'm never gonna stop loving them until the day I die."

Winters hesitantly turned his head. Speirs' hands were clenched on the wheel, tendons taut, almost as if he were pushing himself into the seat. His face looked frighteningly resolved and at the same time eerily calm. Winters had seen that expression worn many times before a battle. It was the look of a man ready to meet his maker.

"Life is too short to waste on regret," Speirs said. "I'm going to live each day like it's my last. Because for all I know, it is."

The major looked away and turned his eyes to the right, across a field so green it almost seemed unreal. Beyond that grew a line of thick, ancient hardwoods, and many miles away the jagged blue silhouettes of the Bavarian Alps rose up with majestic grace. The crystal blue sky above was nearly cloudless, and just above the rumble of the trucks and the voices of the men, Winters could hear birds singing in their high, melodious voices. The birds knew nothing of death or loss. They didn't dwell on it or let it consume them. They were free. They were alive.

Or they were for now; here, within the space of this fleeting moment called life.

"You're right, Ron," said Winters, his eyes following the mountains until they could see no further. "Life is too short."

* * *

The slowing of the vehicle roused Winters from his nap. He sat up and uncrosses his arms. "Mmf," he grunted, his tired muscles heavy with lethargy. "What's up?"

"I think we're stopping at this village, sir," Speirs answered.

A marker swept past the jeep, and Winters was able to catch the name _Landsberg_ painted across the wood in large block letters. It still looked new, which was no great surprise—the Germans had made a game of posting false town names on signs to confound their enemies. The Allies on the front lines were the ones who had to deal with verifying the correct locations and making sure that the forces behind them knew where they were. This sign in particular looked like it had been planted recently by American hands.

"Landsberg," Winters muttered. "Where's that?"

"Don't know, sir."

"Then I need to find Harry as soon as we stop. Stick around, Ron, I may need you."

"Yes, sir."

The convoy took a sharp left turn and found itself in the heart of town, though it could hardly be called a town; its dirt roads and rural setting lent it some rustic charm, though it was by no means a scarred, bombed-out village like so many they had passed through. Landsberg was tidy and intact, and the well-dressed Germans who lived there stood out of the way of the trucks, watching grimly as they passed. Children scampered back to the safety of their mothers, clutching their dresses fearfully in their small hands. Old men with lean, wrinkled faces stared at the Americans with the kind of resigned tolerance that comes from seeing everything and knowing they were powerless to stop it. Winters stared back at them, wondering if their eyes—and his own—would ever bear the sparkle of joy's bright light again.

The trucks came to a halt and the men began to unload; the officers fell into orbit around Winters and awaited his instructions. The major took a few discerning glances at the surroundings, then regarded the expectant faces before him.

"I wanna send out some patrols. We'll have Dog here in the village, Easy and Fox in the woods. The 10th Armored's been reporting a lot of German soldiers hiding out in the countryside, and I want the patrols to pick up any they might come across, officers and SS especially. Report back here before 1800. Captain, you're in charge of the details." He nodded to Speirs and turned away, staring out across the village square restlessly.

While the other officers fell in behind Speirs as he began to rattle off his orders, Lieutenant Harry Welsh lingered by Winters' side. "You're not worried about an ambush, are ya?" he asked gently.

"No," replied Winters, his gaze moving over the village as if he were trying to see something that might not be there. "Just in case we have to stay here for the night." His eyes settled upon Harry and he tried to smile. "What's the rest of trip looking like?"

"From what Sink's been hinting at, I think we might be heading for Munich. Either that or Austria. Can't be sure, though. Nix knows more about predicting maneuvers than me—he's the map guy."

Winters lowered his head. "Right . . ." A tense moment passed, then he looked up with a grim smile. "Guess I'd better go find him, huh?"

Welsh nodded. "I think that'd be a good start."

Winters gave Harry's shoulder a solid pat before he walked away and disappeared into the crowd.

* * *

After establishing a billet in a comfortable house along the main road, Winters set out to do what he should have done weeks ago.

_What'll I say to him? What _can_ I say to him?_ he thought as he walked among the blended companies of the 101st. How could he even approach Nix at this point? The man had been running from him for weeks, whether out of fear or shame, Winters didn't know. All he knew was that it was going to be a tough hole to patch. Nix was damaged, possibly beyond all repair, and it was also possible that he had no interest in associating with Dick anymore.

_I'm the enemy now_, thought Winters morosely. _I tried to change him and I couldn't. I lost my temper and I said things I shouldn't have, and then I lost him. How do I convince him I'm not out to change him anymore? How do I convince him that I'm not mad at him, that I just want him back, alcoholic or not? How can I make him believe me? How do I tell him how much I . . ._

Winters sighed tiredly and rubbed his eyes. The nap he'd taken in the jeep hadn't done much good, and with all these questions thundering down on his shoulders, he felt as if he'd been dragging a half ton of bricks for the past month.

"Battle fatigue" and "shell shock" drifted through his mind, but they were only visiting; he knew why he couldn't sleep at night, why it felt like the life had been sucked right out of him. And it was for that very reason he had to reconcile things with Lew. For both of their sakes, he had to put an end to this silence.

Winters shook off the sleepy fog that had saturated his mind and took a few breaths, cleared his head, quickened his pace. He asked random officers if they'd seen Nixon. They pointed him in one direction or no direction, and the answer was always different.

Winters had no idea what he was going to say to Nix—he just wanted to find him at this point. The words would come naturally, he felt certain. All he needed was a face to speak to. Or listen to. He realized then how much he missed the sound of Nix's quiet, booze-roughened voice, and it made his heart wilt just to recall the echo of his words. Words he'd been hearing for the past three years.

_Lewis Nixon, nice to meet ya._

_The airborne? I've heard that's a suicide outfit._

_Well, I can't let you jump out of an airplane alone, that'd be negligent of me._

_We'll go to Chicago. I'll take you there._

_I'm alright, I'm alright! . . . Am I alright?_

_That's what I get for chasin' redheads. You're all nothing but trouble._

_Why are you doing this to me, Dick? In Christ's name, why!_

Winters paused in front of a shop and stood there a moment, staring at his reflection in the front window, at the foreign words painted on the glass, at the troops milling about in the background. And among them, disappearing into a doorway, the back of Lewis Nixon.

Winters spun around and moved forward until he realized that he'd lost him. Not again. He set his jaw and strode forward, energized by what could have been a figment of his imagination but he didn't care, Lew had to be around here someplace and it was only a matter of time before he—

"Major Winters, sir!"

Winters slowed to a halt as he was approached by a chipper young lieutenant from Dog. "What is it?" he snapped. Everyone wanted a piece of him today, and he was beginning to run out of patience.

The lieutenant flinched slightly at Winters' tone. "Well, sir, Colonel Sink's asking two officers from each company to meet with him at HQ. Says he'd like to discuss General Taylor's plans to—"

Winters gave one last lingering glance toward the troops and sighed. Duty called, and his rank demanded a reply. "Alright, Lieutenant. You can explain the rest on the way to HQ."

* * *

Winters didn't hear half of what Strayer discussed, but it was hardly critical news—mostly just a briefing of their intended route, General LeClerc's French infantry support, the need for current munitions rosters, and of course the small matter keeping the men from fraternizing with German natives. "Lieutenant Foley has informed me of regular violations of this policy," Strayer huffed. "I can't stress enough to you people how dangerous it is to let the Germans . . ."

Winters had half-hoped Nixon would be in attendance, but the presence of Captain Speirs made it clear that the officer quota had already been met. The meeting wore on to the point of tedium, but it gave Winters a chance to think more thoroughly about what he was going to say to Nix when they finally stood face to face. After roughly an hour, he felt fairly confident in his plan of approach. He had to remind himself, however, that this was his friend, not a pair of German guns that needed to be captured. He'd have to tone down his forwardness and be more patient; he didn't want a repeat of Günzberg.

With the conclusion of the meeting, Winters hit the streets of Landsberg in search of Nixon. Incredibly, Winters was just crossing the town square when he spotted him, or the back of his head, rather. He was heading in the same direction, so Winters broke into a jog to catch up. _About time_, he thought. He was beginning to wonder if he ought to report Captain Nixon as MIA.

"Nix!" he called.

He saw Nixon freeze in his tracks.

Winters slowed as he closed the distance between them. "Nix," he said, softer this time.

Hesitantly, Nixon turned around to face him, his face a mask of empty misery, his eyes filled with shadowy turmoil.

Winters stopped within talking distance and stood anxiously before his old friend, heart beating and palms sweating, and suddenly forgot everything he had rehearsed. Panic shot through him like electricity, but his rational mind stepped in and cut the circuit—little steps. One at a time. He could do this.

Winters smiled, but it felt more like a grimace. "Hi, Lew," he said.

Nixon swallowed. "Hi, Dick."

It was a start.

Winters ventured a step closer. "How're you doing?"

"Okay. You?"

"I'm good." He winced internally; this had to be the most painfully awkward conversation he'd ever had with another person, women and men included. "Listen, Lew. I wanted to tell you—"

"Major Winters! Sir! Major!"

Winters clenched his teeth and turned toward the direction of the yelling. If this was anything less than the end of the war, he was going to PT the living hell out of whoever—

Sergeant Frank Perconte rushed up to the officers, his eyes large and his breath coming in gasps. He nodded to Nixon and stammered a quick "sir" before turning to Winters. "Major Winters, sir. We, we found something. On the patrol, we found a . . . we, uh." He seemed to have trouble speaking.

Winters met Nixon's eyes—their concerned expressions were like a mirror reflection of each other. "What is it, Frank? What'd you find?"

Perconte shook his head, his face troubled by a myriad of emotions. He looked up at Winters. "I . . . I dunno, sir."

* * *

Winters drove. Perconte rode shotgun, Nixon and Speirs in the back. Two transport trucks followed just behind them, carrying most of 1st and 2nd platoon. The jeep's tires rumbled steadily over the dirt path, then Perconte raised his arm and pointed. "Right here, sir," he directed, and Winters turned the wheel.

They pulled up to a wide open area fenced in with barbed wire, some kind of camp perhaps, and the unpleasant odor hanging in the air suddenly intensified upon their arrival. Winters saw members of the patrol wandering about, staring beyond the fence or crouching on the ground with their heads bowed. When he parked and cut the ignition, the silence that fell was thick and suffocating. No birds, no breeze, no voices. It was like a tomb. Death lived here.

Nixon slid from the backseat and gazed toward the compound, blinking slowly. There were men inside, pressed up against the fence in a fragmented line, looking at the Americans with wide, unblinking eyes. Their heads were shaven, their cheeks and eyes sunken into their bone-white faces. They moved in the manner of mistreated animals, shying away and lowering their eyes when they were looked upon. The striped uniforms they wore were filthy and hung from their emaciated bodies, little more than skin stretched over skeletons—forearms like twigs, collarbones and tendons jutting out, a testament to some unimaginable act of cruelty.

The troops began to unload from the trucks, wordless with shock. Nixon shook free from the trance of this nightmarish spectacle and went to locate the medics. They were going to need every last one.

Winters spotted Sergeant Bull Randleman squatting near the fence, his back to the camp, a handkerchief pressed to his face—sick, either from the sight, the smell, or the notion that some sadistic monster had put these people here with the intention of killing them as slowly and painfully as possible.

Winters approached the compound, looking at the hunched, weakened figures milling aimlessly about, a hundred questions pouring through his mind. Who were these prisoners? Where had they come from? Why were they here? What crimes had they committed to warrant such punishment? Who could do this to them? How was he going to handle this situation?

Winters gave the order to cut the chains locking the front gate, and the barbed wire doors slowly swung inward, revealing a city of the dead, sick, and dying. The troops slowly drifted inside, trailed by these poor wretches who grasped at their uniforms with bony hands or fell into their arms, speaking in dry, croaking voices and weeping tears of elation.

Nixon stepped up beside Winters, his face bloodless. "Dick," he whispered, "what is this place?"

"I don't know. We need someone who speaks German. Lipton! Get Liebgott up here!"

"Yessir!"

Winters felt a tug on his jacket, and he looked down to see Nixon's fingers clenching tightly into the fabric. He raised his eyes, studying the side of his friend's face. Nixon continued to stare as more pitiful, starved men limped from the long row of huts and shuffled out to meet their liberators. "Oh my God," he uttered. "Dick . . ."

Winters laid his hand on Nixon's shoulder and grasped it securely.

They were quickly swarmed by more of the survivors, sobbing, smiling, grateful, who kissed their cheeks and embraced them, thanking them in words that the stunned Americans didn't understand.

It was a grim, gut-wrenching sight that would haunt the men of Easy Company for years to come. All of the thinking and all of the drinking in the world would not rinse the image of that ghastly hellhole from their minds. It would stick there, like a piece of deeply-embedded shrapnel, and remain with them for the rest of their days.

Sadly, the discovery of the camp at Landsberg was only the beginning.

* * *

The town was unnaturally quiet that night. No dogs barking, no trucks rumbling by, no sounds of townsfolk returning home. All was still, not a soul stirring in the long, lean shadows of Landsberg.

Winters sat at the writing desk in the bedroom of his billet, poring over the maps he'd gotten from HQ and reading the report General Taylor had sent out, the larger part of which concerned the camp and what the next course of action would be. Though he'd been able to bathe upon returning to the house (with hot water, no less), there wasn't enough soap in Germany to wash away the filth which that camp had stained upon him. Suffering and misery felt as if it had been embedded into his skin as permanently as a tattoo.

Winters rested his elbow on the desk and massaged his eyes. It was late. He ought to go to bed, but there seemed no right way to close this awful day. The thought of sleep was no longer welcomed, for where there was sleep, there were nightmares. And Winters knew he had no control over that.

Boots thumped softly outside his door, followed by a gentle knock.

"Come in," Winters bade.

He couldn't have been more surprised when he turned and saw Lewis Nixon timidly peer into the room, carrying his duffel on his back.

Winters straightened in his chair. "Nix . . . What's up?"

Nixon was trying to avoid looking at him, he noticed. He gestured to the bathroom door hanging ajar. "Um. Bathroom's tied up in every house on the street . . . Wondered if I could use yours. Won't take long, I promise."

"Take as long as you want. I'm not using it."

Nixon nodded a sheepish "thanks" and slunk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Winters turned back to his maps and tried to concentrate on them, but found himself listening to Nix fill up the bathtub and fumble with his belongings. He could almost see him staring at his haggard reflection in the mirror and wondering if his eyes would ever be the same after this day, unlacing his ashy, mud-stained boots, peeling off his filthy clothes and tossing them in a heap that reeked of dead flesh and burnt bodies—

Winters closed his eyes and forced his hysteria back down his throat, swallowing it into his belly where it would continue to sour and rot until he couldn't take it anymore. Maybe if he just went mad for a few moments, screamed and swore and got it all out of his system, he would feel better.

_No_, Winters thought. _That's not who I am. Bad things happen when people let their emotions overtake them. They become drunks, madmen, dictators. My feelings don't own me—they're just a part of me._

He glanced at the bathroom door.

_Like him. _

Nixon gingerly sank into the spacious claw-foot bathtub, mindful not to splash water onto the floor. The steaming heat burned at first, but then his skin acclimated to the temperature, evoking an involuntary shudder. He sighed, heavily and wearily, the hairs on his arms rising with gooseflesh. He couldn't remember the last time he'd taken a real bath.

He swallowed a breath and slid down the slippery porcelain, submerging his head completely. There was a brief scorching sensation when the hot water touched his face, but it quickly passed. He let a few air bubbles drift from his lips and roll up his cheek, trickling into the dark hair that floated weightlessly around his head. He listened to the popping in his ears as they filled with water, then there was peace. He was in his safe place now, submerged and hiding, where no one could find him.

He thought of his grandfather, who had taught him how to swim, how to dive, how to hold his breath without holding his nose. Once little Lewis learned that, it became a game of seeing how long he stay underwater. Grandpa Lew would pretend to mourn his grandson's untimely demise, and then he'd act surprised when Lewis would surface with a splash. He would later teach him how to tie knots, how to row, how to navigate by the stars, and how to sail. His death was a blow to the whole family, and it crushed Lewis' heart. He'd lost his confidant, his role model, one of the few Nixons who hadn't joined the ranks of the Fucked Up Beyond All Redemption. That was in 1940. The years following had been nothing but an olive drab blur of maps, booze and bombs. He could recall the sober days since then, and they'd been few.

Nixon surfaced and slowly filled his lungs with cool, life-giving air. He swiped his hair off of his forehead and kneaded his eyes. So much dirt had come off of him already, and he hadn't even scrubbed yet. He reached up and carefully drew his dog tags over his head, dropping them in a wet tangle on the floor. Finally, he felt like a normal man again. The hell with bad luck. He needed to be reminded of his humanity, today of all days. No numbers, no ranks. Just Lewis.

He continued to soak until the pressing need to wash became too great to ignore; he took up a cloth and a cake of soap—real soap, none of that lousy army stuff—and set to work scrubbing the traces of that awful day from his body. He washed himself twice, but even that didn't feel thorough enough. The only reason he didn't go for a third scrub was because the water had begun to cool and become cloudy with filth. He drained the tub and did a quick rinse, then grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist.

Swiping the fog from the mirror and appraising his appearance, he decided that he could use a shave. He was beginning to look like a bum, and the longer he waited the bloodier it would be. He went to his bag and dug out his shaving kit, filled the sink, worked up a lather, and tried not to butcher his face too badly.

He accidentally nicked his upper lip when he heard a voice just outside the door: "Everything alright in there?"

Nixon winced and dabbed at the bright red bead of blood. "Yeah, I'm good."

"Oh." There was a pause. Nixon didn't move—he could almost see Dick on the other side, fumbling for words. "Heard from Division."

"Yeah?" Nixon went back to shaving.

"They've been finding camps like this all over the place."

Nixon stared into his own eyes, thinking of the eyes of those Jewish prisoners. "Jesus," he said softly.

"Seems the Russians liberated one a lot worse," Winters continued.

"Worse?"

"Yeah. Apparently." He could hear Dick draw in a breath. "Ten times as big. Execution chambers. Ovens."

Nixon rinsed the razor slowly, staring at the swirls of soap in the sink. He couldn't seem to make the connection; perhaps the mind had a way of blocking ideas too horrific for the brain to handle. "Ovens?"

"For cremating all the bodies."

Nixon leaned against the sink, his mind now flooded with those horrific images his brain had tried to block. "Jesus," he repeated.

No words passed between the bathroom door for a couple minutes. Nixon finished shaving and rinsed his face, and began to get dressed in his PT gear—the only semi-clean clothes he had. "The locals claim they never even knew the camp existed," he said, hoping Dick was still there. "They say we're making it up."

"Well, they're gonna have a hell of an education tomorrow," he heard Dick mutter. "General Taylor declared martial law about an hour ago. Ordered every able-bodied German in town age 14 to 80 to start burying the bodies. That'll begin in the morning. Tenth Armored is gonna supervise cleanup."

Nixon slipped his dog tags around his neck, shouldered his bag, and opened the bathroom door.

Winters was leaning against the wall, a picture of solemnity and tiredness. However, he appeared to come alive when he saw Nixon, groomed and combed and actually daring to look up for a change. The apprehension was still there, though; it came out in Nix's voice when he asked, "What about us?"

_Us?_ It took Winters a moment to realize Nix was talking about the division, not the two of them personally. However, he was having a hard time deciding which was more important to him right now. A quick glance into his best friend's worried brown eyes answered the question.

"We head out for Taylem—or Tollem, Thalem?—tomorrow. Twelve hundred hours."

Nixon sighed, shook his head, and allowed his shoulders to slump wearily. Winters knew exactly what he must be feeling. They were both exhausted. Today had tried their physical and emotional strength to the breaking point, and they'd barely escaped with their sanity. What they needed more than anything now was a good night's rest, and the sooner they got to sleep, the better.

Winters glanced over at the bed in the corner. He was taken care of, but he didn't know about Nix. He turned back to him and asked, "You got a place to sleep tonight?"

Nixon looked up. "Yeah. Yeah, there's a sofa in the living room," he said a little too quickly. "It'll do the trick. I'll just scrounge up a blanket somewhere and I'll be fine."

"Why don't you stay here?"

Nixon went silent, his eyes darting between Dick and the very comfortable looking bed. "What about you?"

Winters smiled one of his self-sacrificing smiles that made Nixon's heart ache. "Don't worry about me."

Nix looked at Dick. The same way he'd looked at Dick in Bastogne, when they had both stared Death in the face and laughed. There he was, Lewis Nixon, free from the witch's spell, resurrected from the grave, and the shadows in his dark eyes seemed to coalesce into words that had been haunting Dick for nearly half a year.

Winters' heart suddenly leaped into his throat and commandeered his tongue—emotional mutiny.

"Lew, I'm sorry," he confessed, bowing his head. "I'm sorry for what I did. It was stupid of me and I haven't forgiven myself for it."

The duffel bag slipped from Nixon's shoulder and thumped to the floor.

"Wh . . . Dick, hey. Don't apologize. It's. It's okay."

"No, it's not. I ruined our—" He shook his head. "I ruined _us_."

Nixon stepped forward. "Bullshit. I'm the one started this whole goddamn business. You were only trying to help me. _I_ was the stupid one, Dick. Not you."

Winters smiled painfully. "But I didn't help it, either. I made it worse."

"Well . . ." Nixon shrugged helplessly. "For a while there, yeah, it was pretty bad. But y'know, sometimes when you're in a really bad place, it's where you're supposed to be." A smile cut through his dismal aura like a ray of sunlight through storm clouds. "Some guy told me that in Bastogne, and I never forgot it. Just like I could never forget him."

Winters' mouth opened, but for the life of him, he could think of nothing to say.

Nixon drew his lips in a thin line and squatted down to his duffel, unzipping it and digging around within its depths. When he stood to his feet again, he held in his hands an unopened bottle of Vat 69. _The_ bottle of Vat 69.

Winters gaped first at the bottle, then at Nixon, whose expression was nothing short of pitiful. "How about a U-turn, Dick?" he asked softly. "This road is hell without you."

Winters stared at him for a few tense seconds, then leaned forward and pulled him into a fierce hug. The bottle of Vat was pinned between their bodies before Nixon managed to wriggle his hands free and return the embrace. Dick was crushing the air from his lungs, but it still didn't feel close enough—Nix summoned all his strength to squeeze back (_and I'm never letting go again, never_), burying his face into Dick's collar and closing his eyes. That comforting smell. That warmth. That goodness and loyalty and mercy that only a man like Dick could give—like Christ forgiving Judas for his betrayal. Kindness and love and compassion, the things that Nix's soul had been starving for . . .

Tears began to bleed from Nixon's tightly-shut eyes. It had to be a dream. Nothing in life could ever end this happily. Nothing in his vapid, pointless existence had ever turned out right—his parents, his life, his marriage, his addictions—they had all failed him.

Except for this man.

"Are we gonna be okay?" he mumbled against Dick's neck.

"Yeah," said Dick, rubbing his back comfortingly. "Yeah, I think we're gonna be okay."

"Good. 'Cause I don't think I've slept in a month."

Winters grinned and loosened his grip, allowing Nixon to slip free and wipe his damp eyes with the back of his wrist. He reached out and pried the bottle from Nix's fist, turning it over and reading the label as if he'd never seen it before. "So you didn't . . . ?"

"Couldn't," Nixon said. "Not after that night."

Winters absorbed the words slowly, as if his brain was having a hard time chewing them. "So all this time, you've been—"

"Sober? Yeah." Nixon shook his head. "Fucking nightmare." And he meant it.

"I don't know what to say, Lew."

Nixon smirked. "You don't have to say anything."

Winters gave the bottle one last glare before walking over and setting it on the desk. It was like having a Nazi standing in the room with them, or some criminal that had been caught robbing sentimental keepsakes; but it wasn't the liquor's fault. It was simply liquor. It became a monster only in the hands of a weak man, and there were none of those in this room. Even so, Winters deliberately turned the label toward the wall.

He looked over at Nix, still standing by the bathroom door, his arms hanging limply at his sides. He seemed lost. Or very tired.

"The offer still stands," Winters said.

"Offer?"

Winters tilted his head toward the bed. "But if you've got accommodations elsewhere . . ."

Nixon snorted dryly. "Yeah, the Waldorf Astoria's expecting me, but I guess I'll just have to cancel." He paused, his playful demeanor fading. "Sure you don't mind sharing a bed with another man?"

"Lew, we've slept together dozens of times since Normandy. It's nothing new." Though Winters was trying to be blasé about it, Nixon could see his face had colored a little. "Go on. Make yourself comfortable."

"You're the boss."

Nixon pulled back the covers and crawled into bed. The sheets were cold, but only by comparison. (Bastogne was now the gauge by which all degrees of coldness would be measured, and this didn't even make it on the scale.) The overall feeling was exquisite: a fluffy pillow under his head, a soft mattress holding his body, clean sheets gradually warming against him. In all his years spent in outrageous luxury supported by his wealthy, pampered lifestyle, he had never felt more contented. He curled up on his side with his back to Dick, listening to him shuffle through papers at the desk and trying to walk softly in his heavy boots.

A few moments later the mattress dipped as Winters took a seat on the other side and began to undress. Nixon lay with his eyes open as laces snapped against leather and garments rustled. He heard Dick carefully folding his trousers and shirt, and then nothing for a few seconds. There was a click, and the lamp went out.

Winters settled on his back and drew the covers up to his shoulders. He could feel the warmth from Nix's body beside him, and had to resist the natural urge to move closer. You didn't turn down free body heat. He'd learned that in Bastogne.

They lay together in the dark, listening to each other breathe, wondering if the other had fallen asleep yet. A clock ticked somewhere down the hall, but it was difficult to make out behind the closed door. Then, like ghosts summoned from the grave to haunt the place of their death, scenes from earlier that day rose up between the two men, filling the dark with misty glimpses of starved white faces, protruding ribcages, and grateful tears.

Nixon stared at the sharp-edged shadows on the wall, his eyes unblinking. "I can't get it outta my head," he murmured.

He heard Dick sigh quietly. "Me neither."

Nixon bit his lip, moisture welling in his eyes as the chains holding his swollen heart prisoner began to snap and break. "You were right," he said suddenly.

Winters turned his head to gaze at the outline of Nix's body. "Right about what?"

"Why I joined. I was trying to get away. Get away from a wife who didn't love me and a father I could never respect. A life I didn't wanna live." Nixon closed his eyes. He never thought that giving voice to all the twisted, ruinous aspects of his life could feel this liberating. It was like a weight being lifted from his shoulders. "I can't count the nights I sat out on the boat with a bottle in one hand and a pistol in the other, hoping that if I got drunk enough I'd finally have the guts to put a bullet through my head."

Winters stared.

Nixon drew and released a long, tumultuous breath. Tears tracked across his face and melted into his pillow. "But no matter how much I drank or how badly I wanted to end it, I couldn't pull the trigger." He sniffed wetly and smiled. "The night before I enlisted I went through two bottles of whiskey and wrapped the car around a telephone pole. I knew there had to be a better way."

He rolled over onto his back and peered listlessly at the ceiling above, his eyes focused on something much farther away. "I knew I'd see some pretty terrible things in the war, but never anything like this, Dick. Never . . ."

He felt movement beside him, warm fingers brushing against his. He maneuvered his hand so that Dick's fingers could slide between his own, forming an unbreakable clasp of flesh and blood and bone.

Nixon looked over at Winters' shadowed face. "You're a good man, Dick. The best I know."

He could almost hear the grin in his friend's voice as he said, "Go to sleep, Lew."

And somehow, despite the ugly images of cruelty and misery threatening to plunge into his mind and ravage his sanity to pieces, Lewis Nixon fell asleep, and dreamt of nothing.

* * *

It wasn't even light outside when his eyes fluttered open. He rolled over carefully so as not to disturb Dick, and wondered why he'd woken. He was capable of sleeping for another six hours, but the clock inside him had other plans, he guessed.

Nixon propped himself up on his elbows and blinked, his mind trying to muddily catch up with the world again. His dog tags were tangled, his undershirt was twisted around him, and he could feel his hair sticking up every which way. Good morning, Germany. He looked down at Dick, wrapped warmly in the blanket with his orangey hair scattered across his pillow, arm tucked beneath his head, breathing and alive and _here_, and Nix knew in his heart that he would never care about another human being as deeply as Dick Winters.

Nixon mentally scoffed. _Care_. What an absurdly inadequate word. He didn't _care about_ Dick. He didn't _like_ him, wasn't _fond_ of him. He loved him. Fiercely, honestly, ineffably. So much that he'd follow him toward certain death. So much that he'd destroy—not just kill, but _annihilate_—anyone who laid a harmful hand on this man. So much that he'd endure this past month—nightmares, withdrawal, the whole bleeding, brutal nine yards—a dozen times over if it meant Dick would be there for him in the end. He'd do anything this man asked of him and anything for him. He loved him. Like nothing else he had ever loved in his life. Even himself.

Nixon reached over and gently lifted a stray tendril of hair from Dick's forehead, laying it back with the others. He smiled crookedly at his sleeping face and then slowly rose, straightening his back with a few satisfying cracks, and wandered into the bathroom to take a leak. When he came out he could see the thin, milky light of early dawn creeping in through the heavy curtains. He shuffled to the window and drew them back, staring out at the dark silhouettes of the buildings across the street, and the grayish sky behind.

He took a deep breath. Another day. A _new_ day. A day to start fixing things and getting back on track. The temptation he'd been fighting for weeks was finally out of his hands, and he knew that alcohol would never control his life again. There was a lot of reconstruction that had to be done, but he was awake and ready for it now.

He turned from the window and went for his ODs. First he'd head down to HQ and see what Strayer had planned for today. The boys up at Battalion would probably be glad to see him. Then he planned to return to the camp and make sure the people of Landsberg knew their job. The initial thought of returning to that hellhole had every bone in his body screaming no; but it hadn't killed him yesterday—and it wouldn't today. He was stronger, more prepared, and knew what he was facing.

Nixon, hair combed and fully dressed, opened the bedroom door and paused, looking back at Dick, who was still fast asleep. He felt the wings of his heart beat freely—no more cages, no more chains—and he smiled. "Catch up with you later," he whispered, and gently shut the door behind him.

Nixon couldn't speak for God, but at least he knew Dick Winters was on his side. For that matter, he didn't really need anyone else.


End file.
